


Rebirth - Bruce Banner/Reader

by BridgeToTheSky



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Idk I really don't guys this is such a first for me!, Love, Perhaps smut considering it's bruce, Reader-Insert, Romance, Silly me, Slow Burn, Smut, WAIT A MINUTE IT'S ME OF COURSE THERE'LL BE SMUT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BridgeToTheSky/pseuds/BridgeToTheSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time you see Bruce Banner and the first time he sees you is when he had shifted the seal away and  peered down the — your — hole, your prison, and saw you at the bottom of it.</p><p>He was the first human you had ever seen in a lifetime, and he was beautiful, and it felt like the first time.</p><p>(takes place a month or two after the events of Age of Ultron!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome Home

The first time you see Bruce Banner and the first time he sees you is when he had shifted the seal away and peered down the — your — hole, your prison, and saw you at the bottom of it.

 

You had looked up immediately, the light from the sun bright and in your eyes, heating your face. And you had seen him — you didn’t know his name then, but you couldn’t look away, and so you looked. You looked as he stared down at you, amazed, shocked, mouth agape.

 

He was standing in the way of the sun, and so his entire body was outline by the power of it, making him appear angelic to you. Without realizing it, you had traced over every human line of his face, admiring the beauty of it, the complexity.

 

He was the first human you had ever seen in a lifetime, and he was beautiful, and it felt like the first time.

 

And to think he could have tripped and joined you in your help, trapped with you.

 

***

 

The second time you see him is when you wake up from your unconsciousness, a state that had kept you in nightmares of what your life was only days ago. Trapped, alone, quiet — _no it didn’t really happen you weren’t really saved, you were just dreaming …_

 

Your heart gave a little leap as you realized you were in the hospital — your posture a little tighter, _readier_ — sun streaming from your large window, now closer to you than ever and less foreign. It seemed like a real thing, now, being above ground. You could feel its energy on you, warming you, embracing you.

 

 _Welcome home, my daughter,_ it seemed to say.

 

You had heard the door open before you had seen who had come through it, ready to visit you — it gave a soft click open and an even softer click shut. The curtains that shielded you from viewing the rest of the room had been pushed to the side gently, as though not to startle you with any certain movement, and then there he was: Bruce Banner.

 

You hadn’t known his name then, either. But in your mind he was simply and solely _savior_.

 

“Hey,” he said, and his voice was so soft, rivaling the sun for warmth.

 

You hadn’t talked to anyone in so long, you wondered if you tried to say anything, your voice would simply not come; had abandoned you long ago without your notice and left you incapable. Fearful of this, you had kept quiet, waiting to hear more.

 

“That was an, uh, interesting home you had back there,” he had continued, struggling for the right words. His words were nervous — shy, almost. “I checked you over, though, and besides a little bruising here and there, you seemed fine, so …”

 

He — savior — patted his clipboard on his thigh, pursing his lips and nodding.

 

You had stayed quiet, even then, nodding being your only reply, at least to let him know you were understanding him. Words … they seemed so otherworldly to you. You, who had lived in a world without them. And for so long.

 

“Ah,” he began to tap on his clipboard after several seconds of uncomfortable silence. “Not to pry but … what were you doing down there?”

 

You cracked your mouth open, just a bit, but nothing came through.

 

“It wasn’t because …” he began, a little fearful of finishing, “someone put you down there, was it?”

 

You looked down, and didn’t bring your gaze back up again.

 

“Okay, it’s fine,” he had said, holding his hands up and backing away. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t like. We all have our problems …”

 

When he had begun to turn away to the door, you perked up —

 

It was now or never …

 

“Why did I sleep for so long?”

 

Was that your voice? It had been so long since you’d heard it.

 

He turned back to you. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “Why was it, when we pulled you out, you had gills and fins?”

 

***

 

The third time you saw him was the same day where you learned you could fly.

 

You had peered out the window of the building, and found yourself so _high,_ where you normally had been so low. Low to the Earth, one with the very ground itself; hidden away and obscured from everything.

 

It was amazing.

 

Until you had pushed it — leaned to far, and had tumbled out of the window entirely.

 

A scream built up in your throat as you fell, the ground only so far away from you. The wind whipped in your face, forcing your hair upwards.

 

And the scream finally came.

 

It ripped forth from you — you were going to die. Your finals thoughts were going to be terror.

 

_Terror terror death terror horror death death **death** —_

 

And then, suddenly, you slowed … slowed … and you stopped.

 

A gush of wind brushed past you. You were paralyzed in the air, eyes expanded with shock, with horror.

 

Maybe this was purgatory …

 

From your right, below you, a window opened, and you turned your head to see someone — no, _something_ …

 

A something _and_ a someone … what on earth …?

 

It floated from out of the window and to you, cape billowing behind him — it — and searched you with inhuman eyes.

 

“Steady now,” he — _it_ — said. He reached for you with easing arms, ready to comfort you if need be, and he gripped you, holding you in a bridal-style.

 

“Can you tilt?” he asked.

 

You could — as you found out. Gently — ever so gently — you began to steady yourself vertically, until you were equally in line with the flying creature above you.

 

Your eyes looked over the creature’s face — mainly red, with plates of dim golden metal laced into him. He wasn’t human, though not entirely … _inhuman_ , either. A work of art.

 

And you noticed the glow from him came from the bright, golden gem placed at the tip of his head.

 

“Oh my god,”

 

You turned your head to the opened window once more, and saw the man who had saved you.

 

 _Savior_.

 

He curly hair waved with the breeze as his eyes stayed on you, amazement etched into every crevice of his face.

 

“What are you?” he said, and it was no insult. By the sound of his tone, he had asked it in the same way someone would ask about mermaids, or wonders of the world.

 

_What are you, magnificent creature?_

 

In a better world, you would have answered him in some sort of dignified way, but you only blushed.

 

_What were you?_

 

Good question. Very good question, indeed.


	2. No Origins But A Trail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, it had only been two days, Bruce was not coming on to you. That was just stupid. It was a question, and perfectly reasonable one, too. What did you want to happen now?

Bruce Banner, was his name. You knew that now.

 

And you also knew that you had heard that name before. You just didn’t know where, but it had struck a cord in you somewhere, in the way a smell brought back a certain time or place, or a song did.

 

Bruce Banner — a dark room where you sat in front of a glowing T.V. screen, watching a giant thing, you didn’t know what it was, rampage, cameras darting to keep in in shot as it pounced and shot up into the air.

 

And a _roar_ — god, if you had thought you understood the definition of roars, this was to be a prime lesson in them — that rattled you to your core.

 

Trying to recall more was like trying to _remember_ a song while another one played, faint remembrances that were overshadowed by the now.

 

Then, you realized: it had been a long time since you had heard any music.

 

***

 

“What’s it like?”

 

Bruce looked up, and something in his expression told you you thought you meant something else. He furrowed his brows when he said, “You do you mean?”

 

“Being with them,” you clarified softly, idly kicking your legs that hung from the table. “The Avengers, is what you call them? What’s it like to be a part of all of this?”

 

At this, Bruce softened; his shoulders relaxed and his lips curved into a smile. “Oh,” he said, “that. It’s great, sometimes, when we can help. When we can’t, not so much.”

 

“And what do you do for them?” you asked. “No offense, but it doesn’t look like you have any … abilities.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know if you’d call it an ability,” Bruce said, still smiling as he looked through blown-up photos. “But I have something …”

 

“What is it?” you asked, excitement to know lightened up your eyes.

 

The smile dimmed a bit on Bruce’s face. “You’ll find out, eventually — hey, I, uh, look, here’s the thing,” Bruce stacked up the photos and handed them to you to examine. “I’ve been looking through all the stuff that I collected when we found you, and it doesn’t look like there’s anything particularly special about the forest, or the caves you were in, so …”

 

You looked for yourself; you had hoped that you would never have to put eyes on your previous “home” for the rest of your days, but here you were, staring at photos that made the whole ordeal seem like a bad dream; fuzzy. And it had only been two days.

 

Dank, dark, solitary. _Yay,_ home. This was definitely it. The ragged rocks that had crawled up above you where the bats had clung; the water, like the blackest ink, water you had submerged yourself in to catch fish and anything else edible. The only thing the pictures couldn’t catch was the hollow sounds of nothing that seemed, to you, to be the loudest sounds in all of existence. The lack of sound, the emptiness.

 

“Hey, you okay?”

 

A gentle hand on your wrist took you away from your reprieve and you looked up at Bruce, and you blushed; he was close, kneeling in front of you with concerned eyes.

 

Seeming to sense the trigger of your discomfort, Bruce took the photos from your hands and lied them on one of his many tables, away from you.

 

“What now?” you said, wanting to divert the attention away from you.

 

“What do you want to happen now?”

 

You opened and closed your mouth, sure that you were looking like the fish you had once taught yourself to catch, unsure and … _warm._ A part of you was making too much out of Bruce’s sentence — what do you want to happen now? — and it was bringing back an understanding of romance movies; wasn’t that something romantic interests say to their female lovers before …

 

It had been a long time since you’d seen a movie, too.

 

No, it had only been two days, Bruce was not _coming on_ to you. That was just stupid. It was a question, and perfectly reasonable one, too. What _did_ you want to happen now?

 

“I want to find out,” you said. “I want to find out why I am the way I am, and — and why my life was like,” you gestured to the photos, “that.”

 

“Okay,” Bruce said, giving your wrist one last, reassuring rub before rising himself up.

 

“I just … don’t know where to begin,” you continued. “How do you help someone that has no origin? Someone that doesn’t leave a trail anywhere?”

 

“Did you live in Berlin?” Bruce asked suddenly.

 

You blinked up at him. “What?”

 

“The caves that we found you in,” Bruce began, “they were below the forests of Berlin. Do you think you lived there?”

 

“I … maybe …”

 

“Well, you have a name,” Bruce said. “(Y/N) (L/N), that could be enough to simply begin.”

 

“If someone put me down there, doesn’t that mean someone erased all traces of me, too?” you theorized, levitating off the table and placing yourself on your feet (ugh, you were _so_ lazy, but you could fly, you could at least begin to fly, and this was definitely not going to be the end of you taking advantage of your powers). “What if someone was trying to protect me?”

 

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a sense that’s what happened?”

 

You thought for a second, and said, “Maybe?”

 

Bruce was silent as he considered this, and so were you.

 

If someone actually placed you in a cave like that, what exactly were they trying to keep you from?

 

Or keep who or _what,_ from you?

 

***

 

Bruce’s face was hopeful. “So she can stay?”

 

“Of course she can,” Steve said, walking away from the windows of the meeting room. It was vacant except for Bruce, Tony, Natasha, and Steve, and the issue of what to do with you had to come up eventually.

 

“Yeah, Bruce, what’s the alternative? Hand her to S.H.I.E.L.D? They’re a mess right now,” Tony added. “Plus, she’s your girl, isn’t she?”

 

“She’s not _my_ girl,” Bruce defended. “I found her, I want to help.”

 

“Because she’s your girl, got it —”

 

“She’s not —!”

 

“You say she’s lost nearly all her memory, right?” Steve interrupted, ignoring the squabbling. “Over the last couple months I’ve come the conclusion that you can’t take a person’s entire memory away, it just doesn’t work.”

 

“And how did you come to this conclusion?” Tony asked.

 

Steve’s face hardened. “Personal study.”

 

“I can check the records,” Tony suggested. “Her name, Berlin missing cases, all that hooha, should be able to come up with something,” Tony began to walk out before he stopped himself. “Uh, how old is she?”

 

“She has to be between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, right?” Natasha said, looking nearly sure of it. “She can’t possibly be much older than that?”

 

“Agreed!” Tony said, and gestured to Bruce. “I’ll hit you up if I find anything on our girl. For all we know, this might be some weird, _Criminal Minds_ -esque thingy and nothing in our leagues whatsoever.”

 

“Or really beyond our leagues,” Steve said pessimistically. “(Y/N) has abilities, and it never seems to be in between, does it? It’s either aggressive alien or a cat stuck in a tree.”

 

“Or an _alien_ cat stuck in a tree,” Natasha added, just as grimly.

 

 _Now she’s_ our _girl?_ Bruce thought, and then mentally slapped himself in the face — he wasn’t supposed to be thinking anything like that. You were a lost soul that needed help, not a … crush he was supposed to be having. Yes, okay, _yeah,_ you were pretty (very pretty, really, with those big (e/c) eyes and when you did smile, even the slightest, wow …) but this was not meant to be happening.

 

You had told him your name when you came in with Vision just two days before now, and it was pretty. Ethereal, something rather alien. Definitely not a name for someone that had lived underneath the sun for as long as you had.

 

What were you?

 

***

“It’s called Environmental Adaption,” Bruce explained to you. “Or, at least, that’s what I’m calling it.”

 

And this had been after many, many tests.

 

Day three. Bruce had woken you up early after coming up with a plan of his, and you had followed him to the training room, where he finally tested his theory on you.

 

If you fell out of a window, you could fly.

 

If you were underwater, you would grow gills and fins.

 

If you were, say, _to catch on fire,_ you would grow inflammable skin.

 

If you were — again, _completely_ hypothetical — in below-zero temperatures, you would become a human furnace, burning at levels completely abnormal to any ordinary human.

 

You were already abnormal, but this?

 

“It’s incredible,” Bruce said, pacing, hand on his chin. “(Y/N) can combat nearly any life-threatening situation. It’s like fight-or-flight turned extreme.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Steve said, looking at you. You stood there awkwardly, hands behind your back. “This is amazing.”

 

Then, something amazing happened — or, at least, amazing to you. Steve stepped forward and offered his hand to you, followed by a soft grin. “Welcome to the team, (Y/N).”

 

Your mouth fell open an inch. You looked to Bruce, who couldn’t help smiling himself.

 

“This might be a little early, I know,” Steve said as you took his hand and shook. “But with a couple of training sessions, you’ll be able to really join us in our —”

 

Steve was cut short right then by the doors to the training room bursting open, and a frantic-looking Tony came storming in.

 

“Get away from her,” he said.

 

“What?” Bruce said.

 

“I said,” Tony growled, removing Steve’s hand from yours and gently shoving you away from the two other men, “get the _fuck_ away from her.”

 

Tony’s eyes were on you, a fire you didn’t think you could combat boiling in his stare.

 

“Tony,” Bruce said, alarmed. “What’s going on? Just relax —”

 

“No, she’s Hydra.” Tony blurted out. “She’s Hydra, Steve, I can’t believe she snuck right by us like this.”

 

“Slow down, Stark,” said Steve, coming around from where Tony stood guard, staring you down still. “Tell us what’s going on. What the hell do you mean she’s Hydra?”

 

“Restrain her first,” Tony hissed, stepping away from you, but his eyes still glued to where you stood, frightened.

 

What was Hydra? What were in trouble for? You began to shudder.

 

You had seen nearly every member of the Avengers Team by now, and had learned their names through Bruce, but the last time you had seen Tony Stark, his face was confused, amused, still. Nothing like this. The venom that leaked from his expression now made you shrink away.

 

Steve was silent, turning his head from you, to Bruce, to Tony, and then back again.

 

“Just for now,” Steve said. “Until you explain the problem.”

 

***

 

It was only when you had been placed in a detained room, single with one bed and no decorative walls, that Tony began to talk.

 

“It’s funny, you know,” Tony said now, eyes still on you through the small window in the door. “Remember when I said I was going to go through some records, do some digging, see what I find? Well, I found some stuff, that’s for sure. (Y/N)’s daddy is _Hydra,_ Steve.”

 

“What?” Bruce said, frustrated now. “What are you talking about, Tony? She’s just —”

 

“She’s just a spawn of a top ranking _Hydra agent,_ Bruce!” Tony hissed, pacing in the hallway. “Name’s Jonathan Richard Amsel. Guess who he was directly under in the circle of life? Just guess? No?” Tony raised his eyebrows, looking from Steve to Bruce, who’s faces were still giving an example of the confusion they felt. “A perfect little high-ranking officer named _Daniel Waro ,_ can you believe it? Can you fucking believe it?”

 

“Whoa, wait, that doesn’t have to mean (Y/N)’s in on it, does it?” Bruce asked.

 

“Oh, doesn’t it?” Tony said. “Look at her. Eighteen to twenty-five, didn’t Nat say? That’s way old enough to start following in daddy’s footsteps, that’s all I’m saying.”

 

“We’ll give her a lie detector test,” Steve said, determination on his face. “If she really is pulling some kind of game with us, we’ll know. I’ll have Vision and Sam look over the house, just in case she left us some gifts anywhere.”

 

“Gifts meaning bombs or other alien goodies, Bruce,” Tony said, turning to Bruce with a glare. “How could you just bring her here like this?”

 

“A girl in a cave? I thought it was safe! And weren't you calling her my girl the other day? What happened to that?”

 

“ _Safe? Cave?_ Opposite of safe, Bruce! For all we know this is just another elaborate Hydra plan, and we might have walked right into it!”

 

“Well, sorry,” Bruce said, feeling the anger rising in him now — _a girl in a cave, how was that supposed to spell Hydra?_ — but he tried to diminish some of it, in the event that it might take him over. With a swallow, Bruce said, “Okay, do the test, Steve, just … just get it over with, okay?”

 

Just then, a large, deafening — _familiar_ — sound came from outside and Tony perked up.

 

“That’ll be Thor checking in,” he said, breaking away from Steve and Bruce to head down the hall. “Can’t wait to tell him what Bruce’s got us into.”

 

Steve got ready to follow, but placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder and with a firm voice said, “Do not let her out, Bruce. Stay here, we’ll be back.”

 

Bruce fought the overwhelming urge to shove him off and away from him, but he lowered his head and let Steve leave on his own.

 

Blamed for something he couldn’t have possibly known, and now he had to be treated like a — a _fucking child?_ Given orders? Stay here? _Fuck_ him …

 

Bruce was comfortable in this anger, he soaked in it, let it wrap itself around him and his thoughts. He was nowhere near angry enough to be provoked into becoming the Other Guy, so he allowed himself to feel his frustration, nestled in it; a luxury he wasn’t often offered.

 

He looked up now, and saw you looking at him through the window, eyes soft and scared and beautiful. The small lights in the room reflected off them, and when you blinked, it made his heart stop.

 

How could you be Hydra? How could you? The shaking that Bruce saw now, taking over your fingers and your legs, was so _genuine_. So real. He wanted to take you out of your prison that he had been forced to watch them put you in, wanted to wrap a blanket around you and tend to you. He even envisioned it now, whispering sweet words in your ear, relishing in finding that your shivering had stopped, and you had found some kind of peace again …

 

But he couldn’t. He had been convinced to step back. Why was it that he was always on some end of a the spectrum? Either stepping aside and watching others take the lead, or becoming a mindless beast with no concern, no real consciousness, ripping apart anything that stood in his way?

 

Too complacent, too quiet. Confident but not enough.

 

What did you think of him now? As Bruce saw you deprive him of your eye contact and turn away, he felt shame stab him.

 

Whatever you thought, it wasn’t good. And for someone who had only known you for three-and-a-half days, that disturbed him much more than it should have.

 

“Ah!” came Thor’s voice, and Bruce looked up a second later to see the Son of Odin rendering down the hall with a grin. “So, once again we find ourselves in a tussle with the soldiers of Hydra?”

 

“You could say that,” Tony said darkly.

 

“Well, let me see her,” Thor said with a smirk, and Bruce moved aside.

 

Thor looked to the window that revealed you, and his grin … his grin began to melt. His eyes became narrower, and began to pierce you with a glare that you couldn’t see, having turned away from any observance.

 

“You …” Thor whispered, then clenched his fist. “ ** _You!_** ”

 

And before the others could react, Thor knocked the door away and came into your prison.

 

There was not more you could do before Thor’s hand was grabbing you and throwing your body over his shoulder.

 

"We've been looking for _you!_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still, I have NO clue where I'm going with this! But the opportunities are opening up, slowly revealing themselves to me almost hourly! 
> 
> Don't know what's going to happen? Good! Neither do I!
> 
> The MCU is so big and it feels so easy to mess up! I hope I'm doing an alright job so far! Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Ghostly Wrongs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t understand. He’d be useless to you in Asgard, surrounded by immortals and all-powerfuls. The only time he would even be remotely necessary was when the Other Guy showed up, and to think, if you were feeling what he was, this … whatever it was that was blossoming between the two of you, that you were believing that he was whatever you believed him to be and then see … that.
> 
> See what he really was.

Months from now, you would realize that your experience of getting thrown over Thor, god of thunder’s shoulder in a fit and having the other Avengers pinning after you would prove to be a fun bar story you could share with the likes of aliens and passerby. 

 

But, at that moment, it was just terrifying. 

 

A door blasted forth to accommodate you and the blond man — you had not remembered his name, which made the entire deal that much more horrific — and the hard cold floor of the facility was thus replaced with green grass. 

 

“Thor, what are you doing —!” 

 

“Thor, stop! —”

 

“Put her down —!”

 

But Thor did not stop. You were too petrified to do anything; your upper half was crushed into Thor’s shoulder and your heart thumps were exaggerated to feel like stomps in your chest. 

 

Thump  **_ thumpthumpthumpthump _ ** — 

 

“To think I would find you in such a place,” Thor growled, yanking you to him, adjusting you on his shoulder like a rag doll. “Among my comrades — is this some sort of deranged game?” 

 

“Put me down — put me down, PLEASE!” 

 

“Thor, STOP.”

 

Right then, Thor turned on the spot, and your twirled with him, squirming for freedom. 

 

It was Steve’s voice. Because your angle, you could only spot his jean-clothed legs, but they were parted; defensive stance, also just as offensive, ready to do whatever was necessary. 

 

“What is the meaning of this? Set her down.” 

 

“You don’t know what you’re doing — 

 

“ **_ Now _ ** , Thor.” 

 

And there was no further questioning; had Thor not complied, you feared to think what would happen. You remember Bruce had told you, trying to comfort you, about a _you want me to put the hammer down?_ incident that happened nearly a year ago when Steve and this god had quarreled.

 

But apparently having to deal with Steve and having to take you wherever he had meant to take you proved to be one task too many. At least for now.

 

“Her mother is a traitor of Asgard,” Thor blurted, thrusting a finger in your direction, stabbing the air. 

 

_Mother? What —?_

 

You could see Steve, Bruce, and Tony clearly now, and Thor’s words had an affect on them all; Steve’s brows furrowed, downloading this information, Bruce was looking at you, body taut, and Tony was cross-armed, expression somehow managing to be both displeased and amused. 

 

“What do you mean?” Steve said. “How is that possible?” 

 

“I recognized her mother’s features in her the moment I saw her through your glass,” Thor continued on, eyes scanning you, daring you to escape. “Her mother, an Amanda Eliza Rifftens, and her sorcery, spread chaos across the plains of Asgard for months. Chaos, of which, we are _still_ trying to mitigate to this day!” 

 

“Sorcery and chaos, huh?” Tony said now. “I bet Loki liked all that, didn’t he?”

 

Thor was unamused. 

 

“I get it, not a time for funnies.” 

 

“Okay,” Bruce said. “Obviously there are a lot of things we’re not sure of yet, can we please, _please_ , take this inside? We can talk there with the rest of the team.”

 

Thor leveled his head, and narrowed eyes at your before moving forward; the only sign that he would abide by Steve.

 

You came by Bruce’s side, and you were amazed by how instinctual it was, how natural it was to fall by his side.

 

And you were waiting for Bruce to dispel you, to turn you away or walk on without you. But none of this happened. Gently, his hand came to your back, and lead you back inside. 

 

And his hand could have been your food, drink, and your air for all you felt at that moment — fear, bewilderment, _guilt_ , out of everything, guilt for whatever you had done wrong that you didn’t remember. 

 

But his hand, just for a time, made the myriad of emotions ease. Just a little while. 

 

***

 

“Ha!” Tony was inappropriately gleeful. “So I was right! Loki did enjoy it!” 

 

“Yes,” Thor said begrudgingly. “Or, well, he might have. Loki was aware of this … sorceress who gave that wretch’s —”

 

Bruce’s expression was sharp on Thor, and he corrected himself. 

 

“— I mean, (Y/N)’s mother powers.” 

 

“What kind of powers was she given?” Steve asked. 

 

“Invaluable ones,” Thor said. “The Daughter of Rifftens could take to the skies if she wanted. Could inhabit volcanoes, for she could become fire. She could change and become water and live with the fish —” 

 

“Environmental adaption,” Bruce whispered under his breath. 

 

Of course. 

 

“Yes,” Thor said. “She had been given these powers by the one we call Aona. After devastating many parts of many different realms, (Y/N) and her mother both disappeared with the stars. We have not been able to find them. Until now, I suppose.” 

 

Thor shot a glare through the glass, where you sat, tied to a share, scanners running by your sides, ready to detect the lies you could tell. 

 

“So why don’t you just ask Loki where her mother is?” Tony asked. “If they rubbed shoulders at some point, shouldn’t he know where Aona is now? Or where she’d go?” 

 

Bruce watched Thor’s face become a miserable mask of emotion. He said nothing. 

 

Bruce’s mouth came unlatched at a theory. “Loki’s  _ dead? _ _”_

 

“Yes …” Thor said, lowering his gaze. “Normally I would go and hassle him for answers, but since he is … no more, I have had to gather information where I am able.” 

 

Bruce looked to you through the glass. You couldn’t see them (the glass forbid it) and beside you was Natasha, who kept to the floor, face inscrutable.

 

What was all this coming to?

 

What did it mean for you? That was Bruce’s concern. You.

 

***

 

“Do you know where Amanda Eliza Rifftens is now?”

 

It was Bruce who asked the questions, and Natasha who watched you, looking over for any physical signs that indicated a well-conceived lie. 

 

“No.” You said. Your voice shook, but from fear of what would come next, not, Bruce knew without knowing how he knew, from risk of discovery. 

 

“Do you know where the sorceress, Aona, is?” 

 

“No.” 

 

All clear. The scans ran smoothly, lines remaining undisturbed.

 

Bruce took a breath, relieved. His best versions of you kept intact. 

 

“Do you know where she could be?” 

 

“No.” 

 

Still clear. Bruce’s heart began to relax, certainty began to swell in him, making his breathing easier. 

 

“Are you using magic or any type of sorcery right now in order to fool us?” 

 

“No.” 

 

“Do you or have you ever had ties with a Jonathan Richard Amsel, and have not told us?”

 

“No.” 

 

Bruce almost managed a smile. Innocent — innocent of all the most heinous of lies you could have told. Anything now would be a minor hindrance. Bruce didn’t know why he wanted you to be good. If it was because he simply didn’t want another enemy to deal with, or for reasons he still was not aware of — afraid to approach, perhaps — he didn’t know. All he knew the cleanliness of your words, made real in the air, gave him a soft happiness he hadn’t felt in some time.

 

What were you doing to him? 

 

Your eyes were closed, but Bruce wished they weren’t.

 

***

 

Bruce didn’t know that the reason you stopped shaking was due to his hand, that had landed on yours, and that the feel of his warmth near you, softly asking you question that you easily answered, had soothed your nerves. You wanted to turn your hand over and grasp his hand, let your thumb tenderly graze over the soft, small hairs of his fingers, but thought better of it.

 

***

 

“Is there anything that you know that could prove to be a danger to those around you should you continue to keep it secret?” 

 

“No.” 

 

Bruce leaned back, and he was happy to see that even Natasha had relaxed.

 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

 

Bruce had a mind to go up to Thor and land a punch against his smug face — ha ha  _** ha! ** _ — for touching you. What was the matter with him, anyway? Slinging you over his shoulder like that, like he was some sort of barbarian? Wasn’t he supposed to be next in line for king? That wasn’t king behavior!

 

But he didn’t have to, because by the time he had offered your hand a squeeze and rose for the door, Thor had been informed by Steve about everything that had transpired since you had arrived, since finding you, and when he looked at you now, it was ruefulness. 

 

“I apologize,” Thor said softly now. “I see that I have been mistaken.” 

 

“Not me you have to apologize for,” Bruce said.

 

He looked back at you. Natasha was undoing you from the machines, and when you were free, you gave a sob, and your head fell into her shoulder. Natasha went taut, before rubbing your shoulder. 

 

_ We’re monsters, _ Bruce thought. He knew he was wrong to think it, but watching you, tired and startled and sobbing, made him feel like they were a pack of wolves inching to a shivering lamb. 

 

Which, Bruce thought now, remembering what lurked inside him, he guessed they — _ he _ — was.

 

***

 

“I want to go with Thor,”

 

No one had expected you to say  _ that _ _,_ especially with all that had transpired, but it’s all you felt. 

 

Thor was a lead — a lead to somewhere good and safe? Probably not, but a lead. To your memories, to your life that had somehow been snatched away from you and had rebooted back down in that hole, where Bruce Banner had peeled back a boulder and had let the light in. 

 

Bruce Banner, bringer of light. You liked that. It suited him. 

 

But it was more than that; whatever Thor knew about your mother, and whatever havoc that had been caused that lead back to your name, you … you wanted to mend it. If you could — if you were allowed to, trusted to — because you felt like these … ghostly wrongs followed you, lurking like a wraith, and would continue to if you didn’t find some way to close them up.

 

Like wounds, they remained open and bleeding until you sowed them up.

 

And Thor knew — really,  _ really _ knew something — and that was enough. It would have to be enough. 

 

So when Thor announced that he was leaving and would return for you, you said exactly this. That you wanted to leave with him, and find out together.

 

“Are you crazy?” Tony said, and spread out his arms, laughable disbelief on his face. “Are you — to Asgard? Are you kidding me? There’s a kid in there, okay, where’s Ashton?” 

 

“If Thor’s right and my … my mother’s out there and she caused trouble, I — I want to help.” You said, and you knew how small it sounded, like a mouse taking on a mansion. Insurmountable. “We’ve been trying to find my parents and if you’re right, if I’m the daughter of the woman you’re looking for —” 

 

“You _are_ her daughter,” Thor said firmly, but the hardness of his tone was no longer directed to you and only you, more directed to the … situation. “I make no mistake; I remember her face as she was thrown at my father’s feet.” 

 

“Oh … um …” What were you supposed to say to that? “Okay, but, I want to come with you!” 

 

“(Y/N),” Bruce said, gripping your wrist and pulling you back a step. “This is nuts, Asgard is a whole other realm, you can’t just leave!” 

 

“I’m glad you brought it up, Bruce, because …” You trailed, your hand going to grasp his. “I want you to come with me.” 

 

Bruce reeled back, flabbergasted. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed.

 

“Uh, (Y/N),” Bruce finally said, lowering his gaze to the grass. “I … I can’t. I can’t explain, but … I’m not built for that kind of thing. I … I’m not going.” 

 

“Yes, you can,” You pressed, squeezing his hand. “Trust me, you can. I understand, it feels too huge, but you can …”

 

***

 

But you  _ didn’t _ understand, which made this hushed conversation nearly unbearable.

 

You didn’t understand. He’d be useless to you in Asgard, surrounded by immortals and all-powerfuls. The only time he would even be remotely necessary was when the Other Guy showed up, and to think, if you were feeling what he was, this … whatever it was that was blossoming between the two of you, that you were believing that he was whatever you believed him to be and then see … _that._

 

See what he really was. 

 

Anger, a  _ thing _ _._ Not a person, not an all-powerful and not a hero. 

 

A  **_ thing . _ **

 

Bruce thought of your eyes, lovely and big, doe-like, and if they landed on the Other Guy, and how all the hope and blossoms in the world would decay at that moment. 

 

You would know. You would know and you would realize how very, _very_ wrong you had been.

 

He couldn’t bear that. And he couldn’t bear how the more he thought of it, the more he realized how very possible it was for you to go. 

 

Without him. 

 

***

 

“Just try it,” You said, putting a hand to Bruce’s face — you were comforting _him,_ now. How far you had come — and forcing him to look at you. “If it doesn’t work, Thor can send you back. Just … please, Bruce. I don’t know why but I don’t really want to be without you. Not now.” 

 

Your words began to coax him, you were sure of it. Hope became a live thing —  _ just a step closer, just one more, noooothing temporary, just this once, just try, try, try _ — and finally, Bruce squeezed your hand. 

 

“Okay,” Bruce said. “We’ll … we’ll give it a try.” 

 

Tony threw up his hands entirely. “I can’t believe this is happening.” 

 

“Banner —” Steve began, but you interrupted. 

 

“We’ll be okay,” You said. “I can learn more about my powers in Asgard. I can protect us both.” 

 

Thor let the two of you come into his immediate circle, his expression unsure, but he said nothing as he called on Heimdall, and the lights of the Bifrost streaming, the shriek roaring around you and then leaving nothing.

 

***

 

Hope became a live thing, and lore its prey into the web. Such a malevolent, sadistic thing it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, technically, Reader is an oc at this point, but I'm afraid of giving her a name at this point? I mean, it's chapter 3 -- but at first, I didn't know what the story was meant to be and I still don't; I'm just letting it guide me. Would it be too late to count Reader as a oc and give her a name? Would it take away some of the adventure?
> 
> What's your opinion? 
> 
> And I hope you enjoyed this! I can't BELIEVE I'm getting a chapter of THIS out before I'm finished with my Vision story. Life surprises. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> ~M


	4. Things Buried, Things Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were lying on the bed, crouched slightly, head to the edge and legs inching near the pillows but not quite there due to your stature, and Bruce could practically map out the places where his hands could go to pull you closer to him.

Just in a couple of days, you had gone from a fetid cave in the ground, unseen by the world, to an entirely new realm in the skies.

 

Oh, how far you had flown.

 

The force of the Bifrost sent you railing to the side, and for a second you thought that something must have gone wrong. But the lights fizzled out just as quickly as they had begun, and you were caught by arms.   


 

“(Y/N),” this was Bruce, his voice near your ear. 

 

The room was massive and you were swept by its magnificence; cold air, trapped by circular walls. A chamber. The windows were high and outside left the stars of this new realm to behold. It struck you as you lifted away from Bruce's warm arms.

 

“I’m okay,” You said, steadying yourself. Bruce’s hands lingered on you, assuring your well being. “I think the Bifrost just … had me a little sick.” 

 

“Or perhaps it is that you are just clumsy?” said Thor, expression playful. 

 

Bruce sent him a look. 

 

“At ease, Banner! I was just —” 

 

“Thor, there are rules!”

 

A new voice. Thor spun, while you and Bruce looked past Thor to see who had just appeared a little while behind him. 

 

A dark man, helmeted and towering. He made you suck in your breath as he approached Thor, who moved not a muscle; obviously, he was used to this man and his pulsing power.

 

“Ah, Heimdall!” Thor greeted. “How have you been since I was away?”

 

“Do not delay me, Thor,” said Heimdall. “You know the rules: No Midgardians.” 

 

“These are special!” 

 

Heimdall’s face was contorted with worry. “Still, after everything? After the fiasco with Jane Foster, I would have thought —” 

 

“Wait,” Bruce interrupted. “Whoa, wai —  _ Jane Foster _ _,_ Jane Foster?  _ The astrophysicist? _ What happened here with her?”

 

Heimdall stared at Thor, as though the idea of him explaining what had transpired would bring him great pleasure.

 

“It matters not, Banner,” Thor waved Bruce off. “What matters is that this girl is somehow connected to the sorceress Aona.”

 

Heimdall looked to where you stood, and you tried to shake off the feeling of inferiority that came along with his hard gaze.

 

“Very well,” Heimdall said. “I will escort you to Odin’s throne room.” But his stare froze you. “But be warned, my duty is to Asgard, and if you attempt anything —” 

 

“We’ll keep our hands to ourselves,” Bruce interrupted, coming to your side. 

 

“Right,” You said. “Touch nothing, got it.”

 

This seemed to satisfy Heimdall, who nodded and opened a door within the magnificent room, which gave way to the view of a sparkling bridge.

 

“Very well,” Thor said cheerfully. “To the palace we go!”

 

***

 

“They’re so much more advanced than us,” You said — and almost regretted the _us_ part; what were _you_ exactly? Something definitely not Earth, that’s for sure. We’re you even part of the … you know, _group?_

 

“It’s not that great,” Bruce said, looking up at the buildings, ripe with spires, pretending not to be impressed. He whispered in your ear, “If they were that advanced they’d wear jeans.” 

 

You giggled. It was fun, like the two of you were on a field trip of some sort, breaking the rules by conspiring. 

 

Heimdall and Thor were slightly ahead, paying the two of you no serious mind other than the occasional times Thor would peak over his shoulder to you, just to be sure you weren’t doing anything potentially dangerous.

 

“Come on,” You smacked Bruce’s arm, “You have to admit, it’s a whole other dimension and looks it.”

 

“True,” Bruce said. “But, you know, unless you’ve watched Lord of the Rings or something …” 

 

You nearly halted — Lord of the Rings … that brought another memory, a glimmer, a glance into your mind’s eye.  _ Sitting in a chair, right beside a window, The Fellowship of The Ring placed in your lap and your eyes skimming over the pages, popping bubblegum, voices outside the door in the living room, muffled but sounding through the house … _

 

Where was that from? You didn’t speak about it, only kept on with the rest of the group, like normal.

 

You were getting frustrated with these useless memories — what were they all for? What did they assist you with, anyway?

 

But why did you … you did the sense you were reading at that time to push something else from your mind? Your eyes seeing the words and breezing past them, but not taking them in in the slightest?

 

***

 

The rule was clear: No Midgardians. 

 

After the razzle-dazzle with the Midgardian, Jane Foster, it had been realized that maybe _all_ Midgardians coming to Asgard meant badness — a pretty wide generalizations, considering it had just been that one, but the public understood; if it was possible that all the other Midgardians were going to just bring powerful gemstones along with them that had the ability to destroy the fabric of reality, well …

 

No thank you.

 

But if the king’s son was not even going to abide by this rule, then …

 

“Thor, my son,” said Odin, watching with amusement — amusement that should have been fury. How dare he break the rules? “I hope this is not becoming a trend …”

 

“Forgive me, Father,” Thor said, kneeling before Odin’s great throne. “These two are my comrades, and they say that they might assist us in our search for the sorceress, Aona.”

 

Oh, Odin knew this, but it was fun pretending he didn’t. 

 

“I see,” Odin said, simply feigning consideration as he lowered his gaze. After a second of pretend-thinking, he rose his head, and then tilted it. “And I believe … that girl is the —” 

 

“Daughter of Rifftens, I know that, Father,” Thor said. “There is no slight difference in their appearance that would make me mistaken. There is a reason for her being here; she, we believe, is on our side and wishes to redeem the family name.”

 

“Then we can spare no time,” Odin said, and rising from his chair, he clapped his hands and said, “I wish to speak to the Daughter of Rifftens on my own, just a second, my son, you understand.” 

 

Bruce’s hand inclined. “Wait, what — why can’t we stay with her?”

 

A slight frown. Odin didn’t enjoy being talked back to, Midgardian or otherwise. “Because I have willed it. You, as future king, understand my position, Thor? While I trust your judgment, I feel a need to investigate the girl on my own.” 

 

Odin came down from his dais, descending the steps with ease. You backed away, suddenly feeling … unease. A wrongness creeping.

 

You looked to Bruce, who also seemed … unsure, but kept his silence. 

 

Thor gave a curt nod, though … “Yes, I understand, father. Banner and I will retrieve Lady Sif and my other comrades to think of what to do about the search.” 

 

Bruce flashes Thor a look that clearly meant, _What are you doing???_

 

“Come, Banner,” Thor said, waving him forward. 

 

“I’m not leaving,” Bruce said, remaining still in the throne room. 

 

Thor opened his mouth to speak, but Odin thwarted his efforts. 

 

“It’s okay, Thor,” he said, and when Thor looked to him said, “I will allow them both to stay. It will be no problem. Perhaps my words will also need to be heard by Banner’s ears as well.” 

 

Thor looked torn to leave, facing both you and Bruce, but when you — against all your feelings — nodded, he began to leave, his red cape sweeping behind him. 

 

The throne room doors shut with a creaking echo, and then a sharp slam that reverberated at your feet.

 

Odin descended down the last pair of steps, hands behind his back. He gave a sigh and turned to Bruce. 

 

“The company you, Banner, and my son keep is quite interesting,” said Odin, slowly turning to you. “Very interesting, indeed …”

 

“I’ve been tested,” You said. “I haven’t lied about a thing —” 

 

“By mortal technology, yes, you’ve been tested,” Odin said. “But I wonder what we would find, should we peak inside your mind and see for ourselves.”

 

“Hey,” Bruce said, coming to get ahead of you. “How about you stop with all the probing for once. I believe she is what she says she is.” 

 

“Oh?” Odin said, and there was a glimmer in his eye. “And are you everything you say you are?”

 

Bruce’s face faltered. “How do you —” 

 

“It’s okay, Bruce,” You said. “He’s right. Like I said, they seem more advanced than us. More by far …”

 

You came up from behind Bruce, and Odin placed his finger on your forehead.

 

You gulped, waiting for something to happen, to begin … 

 

“Beware,” Odin said. “This might feel a tad jarring to a Midgardian mind.” 

 

And you were about to ask why, but —

 

You jolted forward as a flush of memories came to claim your mind’s eye —

 

_ “Oh,” a woman was toasting you, a warm smile on wide, sensuous lips that somehow remained wicked regardless, “you shouldn’t thank me, thank your mother for helping me.”  _

 

_ Another woman, smiling, and the warmth of her brown eyes seemed genuine as her hand came to squeeze yours — _

 

_ The flavor of strawberry bubblegum consumed your mouth as you couldn’t help but try and make out the words through the door … _

 

_ “… done! … changed my mind!” _

 

_ Changed your mind on what, mom? You thought.  _

 

_ What was happening? _

 

_ The scene changed and your cheek was being brushed by a soft, male hand. Your heart racing in your chest, the tears sliding down to your ears as you were forced to lie back, strapped in. _

 

_ “This is why Hydra agents aren’t allowed families,” said a man above you, tears clouding his eyes. “I never understood until now … we’re not a compassionate breed …” _

 

_ The gear of the machine was too loud, was rising higher and higher, becoming the only thing, the only thing the only thing — _

 

_ The man’s sobs took him over and you felt his lips come to your cheek.  _

 

_ A kiss goodbye — _

 

Odin’s finger removed itself and you jerked backward.

 

“(Y/N) —!”

 

You sulked to the floor, hands over your waist.

 

You could still hear the gearing in your ears, and the trauma still lingering, like it had become a part of your skin and you were still trying to peel it away. You let out a breath, the insides of your stomach reeling, ready to come forth if you let it.

 

“(Y/N),” Bruce said, hands coming over you.

 

You looked to Odin, who’s expression was more than apathetic. 

 

“Not a very harmonious family, I see,” he said.

 

The doors to the throne room reopened and there was Thor. 

 

“Father, I apologize but I couldn’t stay away any longer —”

 

He stopped when he saw Bruce and You, cradled on the floor. He looked up at his father. 

 

“The girl simply got a little overwhelmed by the memory process, my son,” Odin explained, hands knitting behind his back. 

 

Thor nodded, still looking entirely unsure. He came to help collect you. “May we —” 

 

“Yes,” Odin said. “The girl will need time to regain her composure. Tomorrow we get to work in finding Aona and bringing her to the justice that has long since eluded her.”

 

If Thor had been paying more attention, he would have remembered that, in all of Odin’s reign, his father had never shown a particular like, or skill, in such magics. And that using magic at all was simply not his style. 

 

But then again, the reason for him using magic now was because he was not, necessarily, Odin.

 

***

 

Bruce was trying not to laugh. 

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t sympathize with you — and oh _god_ , he did, so very much, he would have scooped you into his arms if he thought that was at all appropriate or if he could get away with it without coming off as … well, a creepy older guy — but, and he was very sorry, but … 

 

Your anger was so _cute_. 

 

And he could say it — Bruce thought he knew a lot about anger at this point in his life, one could say he had a masters in it. He knew anger, and the kind you were exhibiting was the least frightening. 

 

How could _anyone_ think you were dangerous?

 

You were sent to a bed to recover, and Bruce thought that it was, perhaps, a starting point in Thor liking you that it happened to be his room — red curtained arched windows and a bed atop a dais, along with floors of gold — or at least Bruce had deduced that much; who else's room would be this spectacular?

 

And this … _Gryffindor_ -ish?

 

You were lying on the bed, crouched slightly, head to the edge and legs inching near the pillows but not quite there due to your stature, and Bruce could practically map out the places where his hands could go to pull you closer to him.

 

_ Cool it, Banner,  _ he thought to himself. 

 

He so wanted to console you, but he was afraid to open his mouth, say the wrong thing. Finally, you saved him from this by turning your head and murmuring, “I want to go back in the cave …”

 

“No, you don’t,” Bruce said, coming close. 

 

“Yes, I do,” You argued, rising. “It was cold and dark and horrible and I had no one, but things made sense. I … I  _ made _ them make sense, Bruce. I can’t make these things make sense. Why would my mother make friends with a sorceress from another world? Why do all these useless memories keep popping up everywhere? You know I have one memory where I’m watching T.V and some movie’s on about a big green thing terrorizing the streets? What’s that supposed to help?”

 

You settled to the side to catch your breath, entirely missing the chill that came over Bruce, the falter of his face. 

 

What?

 

_ Big green thing. _

 

… could it be? Had you seen him on T.V one particular time? What time? Oh, there were so many times where he … lost control.

 

Bruce swallowed his questions and said to you now, “You … You have to have more patience, (Y/N). It’s not all going to come through in a couple of days.” 

 

“I want to know now,” You said, sliding away from the bed, coming down the dais and beginning to pace. “You have no idea what it’s like to not know anything about yourself — someone put me in a  _ cave _ in the  **_ ground _ ** , Bruce. Why? Who? I don’t know anything about who I am or what my life was! And all these glimpses I keep getting are driving me insane. They don’t tell me a thing!”

 

Okay, less cute now. Bruce saw your face, how awash with agony it was as you came back to the bed and plopped down onto it. 

 

“Or maybe someone was just trying to get rid of me,” You said, void of hope. “Why a dumpster when you can just throw someone into a cave and seal it with a lid?”

 

“Stop,” Bruce said firmly, and your head came up immediately at the steel of his tone. He came to be level with you, his eyes staring into your own, and he said, “No one threw you away, (Y/N). I don’t believe that. We’re missing pieces —” 

 

“We’re missing all the pieces,” You interrupted moodily. 

 

“— that we’re gonna find, all right? Listen, I have an idea: I send out for Tony, or make Thor do it, and he can look over the cave you were in for any clues you might have missed, okay?”

 

Your eyes searched his, and Bruce was surprised he didn’t falter under your intense stare. “Bruce …”

 

“I don’t know what I can do for you,” he said. “I’m not on the team because … because I’m like them, all right? When I defeat bad guys, there’s no trophy for me. No one cheers, no one says thank you. But if I can help you, if I can make this right for you, then I’ll do it. I don’t care what has to be done.”

 

“Brilliant, Banner!”

 

This was Thor, and it caused the two of you to looked to the side as Thor came into the room, smiling valiantly. 

 

“I’m glad to hear of your resolve,” Thor said. “Because it looks like we will be returning to Earth very soon!”

 

Silence. 

 

Bruce scoffed. “So this whole trip was for nothing? Dammit, Thor!”

 

“Do not blame me,” Thor said, turning to you. “It was all her idea to come along. I said that I would return for her when the time was right, when I had more information to give. This is all on your lover, Banner!”

 

“She’s not my lover —” 

 

“What did my mother and Aona do?” You said, taking no offense. “You never told us what she did, and I want to know.” 

 

Thor’s expression shifted from smug to solemn. “She assisted Aona in destroying villages, towns, setting off almost a dozen different disturbances in the realms we are still trying to repair. It is  our responsibility to do so; Aona saw to that. She did everything under the Asgardian name.”

 

This news didn’t settle. “My mother,” You tried to get out. “She … she _killed_ people?” 

 

“There much distrust across the realms as far as Asgard is concerned.” Thor went on, expression dark. “Since  our struggle with the Johuns,  Loki’s imprisonment ... There are whispers that the Asgardians aren’t as great as they once were, and Aona only succeeded in further sealing these assumptions.

 

And that is why I hope your resolve is still just as strong as it ever was, Daughter of Rifftens,” Thor went on. “To restore balance and pay for the very great debt you owe.” 

 

“ _ She _ owes? —” Bruce tried to make out, furious, but you interrupted him again. 

 

“It is.” You said. “So what is the plan now?” 

 

“You and Bruce will return to Earth,” Thor said with authority. “We begin the true search for your mother and father. I will continue to try and find Aona on my own with the help of my close allies. If you find anything of worth or I do, I will come as called and you can report back to me. And it was not for nothing, Banner!” Thor added when he detected Bruce’s intermission. “We have realized three things: that Amanda Rifftens was working closer to Aona than we first realized, that someone, at some point, changed their mind on something very dire, whether it is her mother or father, we cannot be sure, and that it was most likely her father’s doing that her memories are gone.”

 

_Yes,_ Bruce thought, looking to you. It was probably her father’s doing. The explanation of the goodbye, and the memory and particular … what else could it be? But it was a tearful goodbye — what did that mean?

 

It meant that, perhaps, Jonathan Amsel had no intention of letting go of his precious daughter. 

 

It strengthened Bruce’s certainty that there must be a clue, somewhere. He wouldn’t have wanted that to be the end of it, right? 

 

Or maybe that was the whole point.

 

Bruce was beginning to feel your frustration, having tasted it himself.

 

You looked to him, and he rose his head just soon enough to see you say, “Back to Germany?”

 

Bruce blinked, then nodded. “Back to Germany.”

 

***

 

“Earth,” Bruce moaned, knelling to the Avengers Facility’s concrete grounds and bending his head to give it a swift kiss. “Oh, sweet, sweet Earth!” 

 

You laughed through your nausea, placing a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, more to steady yourself than anything. You watched as Bruce reached into his pocket and placed his glasses back on.

 

“See?” You turned to Thor. “It wasn’t just me.” 

 

Thor gave a glare, but it was a fruitless one, and you were glad of it. Was he warming up to you? “Goodbye, you two,” he said, beginning to swing his hammer, the air heavy with its swirls. “I will be in contact shortly — Heimdall, I am ready!”

 

You flinched, waiting for the Bifrost. 

 

… 

 

And it never came. 

 

Seconds passed, and Thor slowed his hammer’s swirling, until he stopped entirely. “Heimdall! I await you!” 

 

Seconds more. Still nothing. 

 

“What in the heavens …?” Thor murmured, eyes to the skies. You looked up as well, and could hear movement behind you that told you Bruce was doing the same.

 

The sky was ripe with its blue. You moved a hand to block the sun’s heat and frowned as it began to burn the back of your hand. 

 

Something was wrong. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked, rising. 

 

“It is Heimdall,” Thor said quietly, and you could almost hear the whirling of his brain, searching for connections for this mystery. “He is not responding to me —” 

 

“That is to be expected, my dear Thor,”

 

A new voice. All three of you spun around to see, in the midst of wind that tugged at her skirts, was a woman. 

 

“Identify yourself!” Thor said, and the roughness of his voice had returned, making you shrink to the side. 

 

The woman did no such thing right away, approaching normally, with one easy step after another, until she stood inches from the three of them and said. “I am called Nylasis, sister of Aona, and I have come to assist you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very disappointed with this chapter -- I wanted it to be so spectacular and it just ended up being more exposition! I'm so disgusted with myself and so very sorry! The next one will be much better, I can promise that to you!


	5. A Want To Be Seen, A Want To See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM ALLIIIIVVVVEEEEEEE
> 
> Thought I forgot, huh? No! Just crippling anxiety from having a fanbase of some sort and enormous writer's block mixed in with aggressive feelings of inferiority. 
> 
> So, you know, the usual.
> 
> I don't even think I can apologize for how long this took, and can we just not even talk about it? I know it'll be awkward at dinners, but we can at least pretend I'm not a lazy, neurotic person who will set you up with an interesting premise and not, you know, update at regular intervals. 
> 
> So, in an attempt make it up, super long chapter ahead of you. I hope I've redeemed myself somewhat!

Seven o’ clock. Berlin, Germany. Tuesday.

 

You watched the milk swirl, mingle with the brown of your coffee. You felt the heat of its smoke rise into your face and heat your chilled nose.

 

Bruce’s hand was in your own — you had grown so accustomed to his nearness that it felt unnatural to be deprived of it — and your nails grazed against the wool of his sleeve.

 

“How long are you going to stay like that?” asked Bruce.

 

The sweetness of Bruce’s chuckle tugged at your heart. “Until the world’s grip on me loosens.”

 

“Ah, good luck with that.”

 

You tried to resist a smile — to no avail, feeling your lips betray you. His preexisting smile grew wider with your own, and he nudged you with his shoulder.

 

And with that nudge came a … flutter. In your heart, activating your goosebumps. God, you hadn’t even touched skin to skin and still, there it was. Flutter.

 

 _Thumpthumpthump_.

 

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since you had been found in your hole in the earth, since Bruce had found you, since your quest had begun.

 

Since Nylasis had come and torn apart your world yet again.

 

Bruce had looked down, and, clearing his throat first, then said, “So, let’s go over the plan for today, all right?”

 

“Okay,” You said softly, looping fingers around the handle of your mug.

 

“Tony gave us some leads. He narrowed down the location of your father’s old home.”

 

“And he’s probably not there,” You said, disappointed.

 

“Probably not … but it’s possible he might have left some things. Not big things — like I said, I believe he did something to you he wasn’t supposed to —”

 

“Obviously. Mind-wiping should be off the table, but alas!”

 

Bruce’s face softened. “I think he was trying to keep you from something. It could have been Aona, or even your mother. We’re missing pieces. We look around his old home and see if we can dig up anything.”

 

“And plan B?”

 

It was then that Bruce’s face became a little harder, and he clenched his jaw. “We go looking for some old HYDRA recruits. See if they know anything. Most likely, they do; Jonathan seemed very high up. Someone should know something.”

 

“Okay,” Your heart was beginning to race with the excitement of this new trip. “S-Bahn time?”

 

Bruce smiled and nodded, gathering up his things. “S-Bahn time.”

 

V

 

You had hardly any time to finish your coffee before Bruce had taken you away from the hotel, hand still in yours, and down to the subways. The Germans had remarkable transportation, and you had wondered why not simply a cab?

 

“Too far. Wanna stay inconspicuous. Let’s go,” was Bruce’s reply as he hurried you into the tunnels.

 

You didn’t fight anymore; after all, you were excited for the experience. Not … necessarily of being underground again, an aspect of which you were not particularly fond, but you had wanted the train as much as he did.

 

It had then occurred to you just how well the two of you fit in on the train. A ordinary-looking fellow (Bruce) with frazzled hair, a gray sweater hiding a plain navy-blue shirt that was missing some buttons, and a hefty brown computer bag. And you, a sweater as well and some jeans, carrying a plushy purse filled with nothing but leftover papers Bruce had not been able to carry on his own. Tony had been the one to suggest a money transfer to make the “investigation” comfier, but hardly any money was being spent; other than transportation, hotels, and the purse strapped on your shoulder, there had been no big spending. Well, those things, and a stuffed bunny Bruce had gotten you, to heightened your morale. It was adorable, and possibly the fluffiest thing in all of creation, and you wished you had brought it with you …

 

It amused you to see Bruce trying to look inconspicuous; you realized that the two of you couldn’t have fit in better with the crowd of German-speaking people; to them, you must have looked like a couple consisting of a nervous college professor and his wife — and that was at the best, at the worst, you looked like nervous tourists.

 

At the idea of someone making you out to be Bruce’s wife, or even girlfriend or even date, made you blush. But … not unhappy. Not defensive. Thor had confused you to be Bruce’s lover — and it hadn’t bothered you. Not in the least. You hadn’t even corrected him …

 

At that, you felt dirty; Bruce had corrected him. Maybe it had made him uncomfortable — the idea that someone would misconstrued whatever you had as romantic. Maybe hand-holding was as far as you’d get. Maybe there would only ever be flutters.

 

That … disappointed you. For some reason. You didn’t dare try and delve as to why …

 

The ride was smooth; easy.

 

“He lived right in the heart of things, (Y/n),” Bruce explained. He had taken out some of the papers to examine when the train’ novelty had worn thin. “That’s … actually pretty smart.”

 

“If I was a part of an evil organization and had the tendency to experiment on people,” You started, incredulous, “I don’t think I’d want neighbors.”

 

“If he lived far out like some of the others, I presume, I think he’d be more suspicious. He was just a normal citizen, waving at people, talking, joking around every once in a while. Think about it, (Y/n). A little quiet, perhaps, but no one would bat any eyelashes.”

 

Perhaps he was right; so … not only an evil man, but an evil mastermind who exploited society’s vices, too? You frowned, your dislike for the man deepening.

 

Then Bruce’s hand came to yours, rekindling with it. He soothed his thumb over your knuckles.

 

“It’ll be all right,” he said, leaning into you in that same nudging fashion, grinning at you.

 

Flutters … flutters …

 

You smiled back sheepishly, and when Bruce leaned away and continued in his readings, you felt a little cold.

 

You wished he had done more than simply lean and grasp your hand.

 

V

 

Old. So very old.

 

There was something about European countries that began to blend together in a lovely mass of shared traditions — claustrophobic, cobbled streets littered with cars, making the space between building and road even thinner. The towers and the fairytalesque architecture. Perhaps it was ignorant for you to think it, but there was something beautiful about the similarities; like a family, a … erm … reluctant family, at times, but a family nonetheless.

 

And Berlin was no exception; a neighborhood of exactly the aforementioned caliber was what you and Bruce were met with. The cars were organized on the street. Your eyes were caught on the balconies with black railings that curved and swirled, redolent of like black lace. The wind sent you shivering, shielding your goose-bumped forearms with your hands before Bruce offered your his jacket.

 

“We need to get inside — there it is,” he said, pointing at a home at the very bottom of a cream and beige-colored building.

 

You looked at it, and … was tickled with familiarity. Then —

 

_Someone had said something so funny, and you were knelled over the stairs with laughter, your stomach in agony at onslaught of laughter —_

_You admired the streetlights glow before heading inside —_

 

You gasped as the present world claimed you.

 

“What?” Bruce said, panicky. His hands out, ready to grab you should you faint. “What happened? What did you see?”

 

You held on to him. “It’s nothing, it’s … god, I used to live here. Live _here,_ live here..”

 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” You assured Bruce, squeezing his shoulders for good measure. “Let’s get inside.

 

V

 

Bruce was three steps ahead of you, you taking up the rear. Once again, while heading up the stairs, you wondered about Bruce’s abilities. What could he do? He was obviously the brains (or part of it; Stark was no slouch in that department, either) of the Avengers operation. His eyes drooped from hours taking in data, but what could he do do? You felt it impertinent to ask again; after all, apparently these … abilities one could possess were not always what one would consider a gift.

 

Or even an advantage.

 

“Here,” Bruce said as they found a landing leading into a corridor. “201. This should be it.”

 

“How did you and Tony find it?” You asked.

 

“Before the team, I, uh,” Bruce’s eyes rose to the ceiling as though he would find the appropriate words engraved there, “was sort of the kind of elusiveness. I know what to do to find people without being found myself.”

 

You stared at him, and then —

 

“Also Natasha.”

 

“Ah.”

 

Together, the two of you approached the door. Bruce slowly rose his hand knocked.

 

A couple seconds of inactivity passed.

 

“I wouldn’t want to move in here,” You said, “if I found out it had a … past.”

 

“Think it’s empty, then?” Bruce asked.

 

“… Definitely,” You said.

 

You didn’t, but you wanted in, anyway. The longer you stood there, the more your resolve solidified.

 

Bruce seemed to feel the same, because he shrugged and backed away. “I’m going to regret this.”

 

“We’ll regret it together, if it comes down to it,” You reassured him, moving away from the door.

 

He held the knob before slamming into the door with his shoulder, then again, then again, until it gave with a loud crack before hitting the back of the wall. Making sure to cover you entirely with his body, Bruce went forward, glancing backward at you with caution.

 

You felt no fear, and took his hand. Immediately, there was a familiar smell, mingled with the scent of rust and burnt paper. There was a quiet _drip, drip, drip_ from a nearby faucet that set your nerves on edge. You felt your palm sweating in Bruce’s hold, but refused to do so, convinced that, if you did, reality would come apart.

 

The foyer led into a plush living room, but … not one really designed for a family; a gray loveseat, accompanied by some soft chairs, one of them fixed with a book on its cushion.

 

An _open_ book — a book recently abandoned.

 

“Someone’s here,” Bruce said decidedly, quietly against your ear, the heat of his breath doing nothing for your nerves.

 

Nothing.

 

“Bruce,” You whispered. “We have to see the bedrooms … I recognize all of this .. But the furniture feels — it’s not all the same.”

 

“Are you waiting for a memory?” he asked.

 

“I’m _always_ waiting for a memory,” You replied. “Yes. Please, Bruce …”

 

He considered you, before closing his eyes with a soundless sigh.

 

“Okay,” he said. “But I go ahead —”

 

“No, _no,_ stop protecting me, I don’t want you —”

 

“I go first,” Bruce said in a firm voice you weren’t accustomed to, “or we don’t go.”

 

You weren’t ready to meet the steel of his resolve, and met his gaze. You tried — _tried_ — to be frustrated by his gallantry, but couldn’t find the emotion within you to do so. Finally, you relented with a nod.

 

The floorboards creaked no matter what — stiff with the lack of heavy feet — and as the two of you approached the hallway to the bedrooms, you noticed the walls. The dusty tracings of picture frames, once hung but since taken away, put up somewhere. Maybe you’d find them? Maybe they were of you.

 

You felt another vision crawling up your neck, ready to cloud your eyes with the past, but you felt it like how a person hears an approaching train, or a strike of lightning that would soon bring rain. It was building within you. Your fingers trembled in Bruce’s grasp.

 

It was dark. Two doors, one closer than the other, milky white and … freshly painted.

 

“What the hell?” Bruce whispered, noticing the absurdity as well. “The door …”

 

You nodded, staring at the door’s knob. “We have to go in,” you said, the trembling inside of you worsening with the passing seconds. “This … this was my room.”

 

A look of shock in your direction, before Bruce held the knob, preparing himself, and then —

 

He trust it open, and against the window, was a man.

 

Bruce’s body shielded yours — otherwise, the bullet would have gone right through your heart.

 

V

 

Tony’s attention wasn’t on Bruce — or _you_ , for that matter — it was on his files, the documents filtering through his screen, one after another, the light reflecting in his wide eyes. Bruce waited, his body tense, for his friend’s answer.

 

“I can send you,” he said. “Yeah, sure. Germany? Fine. But …”

 

He turned, at last, to Bruce, his gaze flickering to you for a split second, and said, “Are you sure about this?”

 

Bruce knew what he was referring to, and pretended not to. “What do you mean, Tony?” he asked, exasperated.

 

“I mean, your little groundhog —”

 

“What Tony _means_ to say,” interrupted Pepper, giving a side-eye glance to him, “is that … you haven’t known (Y/n) for very long. Are you sure you want to go forward with this? You’re not exactly qualified.”

 

“I’m not a _nut-case,_ ” You defended yourself. “I have memory loss.”

 

“Magical, Hydra-initiated memory loss,” Tony pipped in.

 

“My fault how?”

 

“Stop,” Pepper cut in again when Tony straightened, ready to take on the challenge of _making_ it your fault. “(Y/n), I’m sorry, but what you’ve been through is very traumatic! A—and Bruce is not _that_ kind of doctor. I don’t think you’re crazy, but you might need serious help; memory loss is not a silly thing.”

 

“I want to find out who I am and why I am the way I am,” You went on, and then held on to Bruce’s arm. “I don’t want to spend the next five months looking at ink blots on flashcards with some condescending therapist who Tony will probably have to _pay_ —”

 

“ _Pardon_?”

 

“Bruce is willing to help me,” You continued, undeterred. “And he’s the only help I’m willing to receive.”

 

Bruce turned to you then, coming closer enough that it made the conversation private. “They have a point. I could do more harm than good to you if your condition intensifies.”

 

“It’s not going to,” You said. “I can control myself.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Bruce said. “You can’t know that. Not all the time.”

 

Bruce’s gaze lowered, as though something had occurred to him that made it hard to continue on normally.

 

“What?” You said, alert. “What is it?”

 

“N — Nothing,” he said, looking up. “Don’t worry … I don’t know if I can do this with you.”

 

“You went to _Asgard_ with me,” You fought. “You can go to a different country with me, surely?”

 

Bruce seemed stumped by this, and in his silence you took the opportunity to slip your hand into his.

 

It was routine now, for you to do so, it was near instinctual to reach for him, entwine your fingers into his, especially now, when the world did its best to render you immaterial, lesser, imaginary. Nothing about you felt truly real sometimes, and in those moments the solution was as easy as rubbing your thumb against Bruce's hard knuckles.

 

“C’mon,” You insisted with a smile. “We can’t break up the team now, not after we’ve come this far.”

 

Don’t leave me, you wanted to slip in. I need you and I know you don't need me, but I have to count for something, right?

 

"All right."

 

It wasn't Bruce's voice. It was Tony's.

 

You looked away from Bruce and ahead of him, where Tony stood, arms-crossed and head down.

 

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have said — look, even if you did decide _not_ to go, Bruce, you wouldn't forgive yourself for doing it. I know that much."

 

He turned abruptly, touching his holographic screen with the tip of his finger, flipping away at the files until one stood out.

 

"Berlin okay?"

 

Bruce looked to you, the corners of his lips turning upward, his eyes seeming brighter than before.

 

Pepper grinned. “You have to grow some sort of immunity toward cute girls, Dr. Banner."

 

You giggled, the comment breaking any remnant of tension the room had.

 

 _I have to grow an immunity to cute men,_ You thought.

 

His eyes seemed to glow when he was happy — you hadn’t noticed before.

 

V

 

You could have been shot in the head, or the chest or the stomach at that point. Most likely, you wouldn’t have noticed.

 

The man in the room was screaming, gun held tightly to him and pointed at the two of you. You could understand his German, but you could also understand nothing in the universe except that Bruce was bleeding.

 

He held his shoulder, his eyes dilating and frozen on you.

 

“ _Bruce! **Bruce!**_ ” You said — or shouted, or screamed, you comprehended nothing other than the story your eyes wrote for you, and it was a horrific one.

 

You rose your head to the man, your hand coming up. “Don’t shoot! Don’t! No!” as he redirected his aim to you.

 

He was ready to fire … until he wasn’t. His voice died away, his hold on his pistol faltering as he saw you — _really_ saw you.

 

He spoke again, quieter, amazed.

 

“… (Y/n)?” he said. “Du bist … du bist _(Y/n)!_ ”

 

You are (Y/n), he said — You _understood_ — but you looked down at Bruce again and …

 

Perhaps it was the shade of the room, or trickery of the light, but … but were there green specks in his eyes?

 

Immediately, Bruce struggled from you, gasping as he came to his feet.

 

“Bruce! Bruce, wait!”

 

You followed him —

 

“Wait!” you heard the gunman say, but you would not turn back as you followed Bruce, the specks of blood falling onto the floor, behaving as a trail as he forced himself, hand to his neck, out of the hallway and out the door.

 

“ _Bruce!_ ” You tried to follow him down the stairs, the task becoming easier as his strength dwindled and he leaned against a wall at a landing.

 

“Bruce,” You said, pressing hands on him. “Bruce, you have to stop, you’re —”

 

He flinched, his hands pushing you away with a shout — no, that was not a shout, it was not a _human_ noise … You hit the railing from the force of his shove. The shock kept you from collecting yourself entirely, until a second later you lowered your hands, your attention glued to Bruce.

 

His gray sweater was now awash with blood on his right side, decorating his neck and dripping from the end of his fingernails.

 

“Don’t …” he struggled to make out. “Don’t come near … near — AAARRRGH!”

 

He twisted his neck as though to jerk something away from him.

 

“Have to … have to try and calm … calm …”

 

“Bruce,” You spoke, coming closer despite his warning. “Bruce, look at me, come on — come on, that’s … that’s it. Keep to my gaze, come on …”

 

He did as you asked, his eyes, now dashed with green at the irises, held on your form. You brought your arms up, hesitantly, before settling them on his shoulders. He flinched at the contact but did nothing more, allowing them to rest on him. His breathing was shallow, hard. You moved your right hand to his wound, hoping to block the frequent flow of blood, now spreading across his sweater slowly, like a virus across the globe.

 

“Sit,” You ordered — perhaps foolishly; what made you think you could demand him to do anything? In this state?

 

But he listened. Sinking slowly to the floor, his sneakers squeaked against the granite, causing him to slip farther down without his consent. You caught him, helping to slow the progress. You sunk to the floor with him, the hard floor causing your knees to ache within seconds, but you all but failed to register it as Bruce’s head fell into your shoulder, his hand against your back.

 

Soft footsteps. You looked up to see the gunman, considering the scene below him, his hand on the railing. Your eyes widened warning, and you jerked his head in a way to convey, Fuck off, you’ll make it worse.

 

A second, then another, then he removed his hand from the railing and slunk away before he could be seen by Bruce.

 

You sighed inwardly, the breath coming out from your nostrils and against the nape of Bruce’s neck. Both arms were around you now, his trembling causing you to nearly vibrate. You held his wound, applying as much pressure as possible without hurting him anything farther.

 

And that was how it was. For five minutes more, for fifteen, for twenty, an half-an-hour. You just kept to him — eventually maneuvering into a position more comfortable; his lap — your left hand now against his head, pressing him farther into your neck, gently rocking him, soothing him in words both English and German (to be addressed in the latter language had rattled something inside of you, making it easier to refer to both).

 

Soon, his trembling ended. Quiet. Maybe others lived in this complex, maybe they had heard the gunshots. You doubted both accounts. Whatever the case: nothing was going to move you away from Bruce.

 

It jerked your attention when he rose his head, his nose brushing against your cheek as he looked up at you. Dazed, the specs of green all but disappeared from his eyes. He considered each one of your eyes, back and forth, his lips slightly parted.

 

It must be like waking up from a dream, and then, like a train (the train you had imagined applying to your visions, the train meant for you) it hit you.

 

… What was Bruce’s ability?

 

… Would you have seen it? Given a second or two more?

 

It dawned on you, both gentle, like sunset light, then searing hot until it could have burned you alive: he had never been direct with you about what he could do.

 

This was why.

 

You returned to the present, your expression contorting with sorrow. “Bruce … Bruce, I’m … I’m so —”

 

“Don’t worry … Don’t worry …” he whispered.

 

Then he said nothing, only continued to take you in. He was so close, and it was then that you realized his expression had taken on a type of feverishness. You were crushed against him, breasts and stomach against his drenched self, shielded by his sweater, but for all you knew, he could have been wearing nothing.

 

It made your mouth dry. And your nerves were lit aflame as Bruce’s gaze lowered.

 

Your lips, then back to your eyes, then your lips again …

 

Your heart rate quickened as you yourself did the same; his lips were chapped, and there was a small trace of dried blood against his lower, but it made no difference to you.

 

You felt his hand raise up your back, igniting your goosebumps.

 

“I …” You tried, but words no longer seemed appropriate. “I … Bruce, I …”

 

Words were not appropriate, and now, as Bruce’s eyelids curtained, and his hold on you lessened, they did not need to be.

 

He fell to the side, and you caught him — again — before he could fall into his own small pool of blood. He was much bigger than you, but, regardless, you straightened him against the wall.

 

He had fainted, and what were you to do? Oh, gods, _oh gods,_ oh —

 

“Pardon me,” came a voice.

 

You looked up.

 

It was the gunman again, now gunless.

 

“I …” he trailed. “I help him. You bring him, I help.”

 

You’ve got to be kidding me.

 

“What?” You said, more out of the absurdity than confusion.

 

“No choice,” he said softly. “Please. I did not mean —”

 

“What?” You shouted up at him. “To shoot an innocent person?”

 

“I did not think —”

 

“ ** _Don’t,_** ” You pressed, in a voice harder than you ever thought you were capable, “think I won’t use that gun against you, if you try anything. Don’t **_think_ ** I won’t kill you for this.”

 

You were not sure you meant that vitriol, but, whatever the case, you knew you had little choice, and when the gunman came to help Bruce into the apartment, and put some tea on the kettle, you went for the pistol kept on the counter.

 

It was blank.

 

V

 

_Riiing … riiing … riiing …_

 

“Mr. Stark is out right now, but since you have his personal number, I’m assuming that you —”

 

“Friday,” You said. “Oh, _god_ , Friday, let me speak to Tony, please tell me he’s around and just sleeping.”

 

“He is out and informed me that it is imperative he has his space —”

 

“Tell him to —!”

 

“Unless,” Friday continued, “It was Miss (Y/n) or Mr. Banner on the line. Just a second.”

 

You waited, jiggling your legs. How were you going to tell him you got Bruce shot? How does one casually mention there was a little gun trouble?

 

All the anxiety that had been meant for your seemingly inevitable vision was now being spent on Bruce, and you felt that build-up no longer, even though the ghosts of familiarity were all around you as you rested on the opposite side of the bed — _your_ bed — and monitored a sleeping Bruce. Six o’ clock. Eleven hours since your journey to your old home — or what was left of it; other than your room (that had been mysteriously renovated separate from the rest of the apartment), the place was slowly coming apart from years of nonattendance.

 

One mystery at a time, you told yourself.

 

A loud ringing on the other line, then —

 

“God, Friday, more of a warm wakening next time, all right?”

 

“I’m sorry, sir. Miss (Y/n) is on the line and I thought —”

 

“What?”

 

A scrambling. You braced yourself and —

 

“This is soon,” Tony said. “What happened?”

 

“It’s me,” You said. “Bruce is … asleep right now.”

 

“In six in the afternoon?” Tony scoffed. “You must have really worn him out.”

 

“What?”

 

“… Nothing,” Tony brushed you off. “What happened? Why are you calling?”

 

“I just …” Oh no. “We’ve arrived, but … we got into some issues upon arrival.”

 

“Issues?”

 

“Bruce was shot.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Tony hissed-whispered, and you gathered that he had not been sleeping alone. “What the _hell_ do you mean he got _shot?_ By whom? What did you do, groundhog?”

 

“Nothing, and that will _not_ be the nickname, you hear me?” You said, whisper-hissing as well as Bruce’s lips twitched. “Look, we got to my old house, and there was — is — some guy living in it and when we walked in my room he shot Bruce, but I think he thought he was someone else and now …”

 

“Now?”

 

“He’s getting Bruce a cold towel and making me some tea.”

 

“Well,” Tony said, his voice saturated in sarcasm. “That’s a happily ever after if I’ve ever heard one. Wish Loki had made us some waffles after New York …”

 

“Who’s Loki?”

 

A sigh. “Reference wasted, forget it. You saying you trust this guy?”

 

“No,” You said. “I’m saying I didn’t have many options as Bruce passed out on me.”

 

“Need help?” Tony asked. “I can —”

 

“No, I got this.” You so didn’t have this. But you felt you had an inkling of what to do now. “I … I think this guy might have been around when my dad … you know.”

 

“Okay. The new buzzword is ‘waffles’ if something goes down, okay? And, speaking of which …” Tony trailed. “Did you … did Bruce … you know?”

 

“What?” You said, your attention perking.

 

“He … he hasn’t told —? Nothing, then, forget it.”

 

“Tony,” You pressed. “What can Bruce do?”

 

“He needs to tell you,” Tony replied hastily. “You didn’t hear anything from me. I’m a word away.”

 

The line went dead, and you closed your eyes with a sigh of your own.

 

Alone, again, now more than ever. Bruce was out cold; you were sure you could set off an atomic bomb and he’d hardly jerk a toe.

 

You could hear the whine of the kettle from outside the door, muffled but steady. You set the phone into your pocket, and realized if it was not now, then it was most likely never.

 

You didn’t want to leave Bruce — even if his wound was bandaged and steady, still — but … if you wanted any answers …

 

You kept the door open as you left, ripping yourself from his side.

 

The gunman — awkward name now, considering — was pouring the heated liquid into two separate mugs before settling into a seat.

 

“Talk?”

 

A second, then, “I speak German,” You said in the language. It fell from you like water; easier than it should have ever been.

 

“Oh, thank god,” said the man. “I’m afraid I’m not very fluent in the language. That actually cost me a date once, if you can believe —”

 

“No jokes,” You said, arms-crossed. “Forgive me, but you … shot my friend.”

 

“Ah,” he said, lowering his head. “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. I thought he was … he might have been someone else.”

 

“Who?” You said, leaning against the door; no way were you sitting down, leaving the way to Bruce open to this stranger — even if he did have tea. “Who exactly were you expecting? I think if it was possible that there would be a shootout, I’d just live somewhere else. And …” You looked around, “nicer.”

 

“I lived here when there was still people,” said the man. “I am old. I have no interest in leaving.”

 

“What happened to it?”

 

Silence. You took the opportunity to finally take in the man’s appearance; he was old, or, if he was being humble, he certainly had age on him; his hand was against his cheek, certainly being scratched by his gray beard. His eyes were sad, and he obviously didn’t eat much — his frame was so skinny, and had that flabbiness to him that often accompanied old age. He was squinting often, which gave you the idea that he was most likely nearsighted and without his glasses at the moment.

 

“I recognized you …” he said. “The moment you rose your head to see me, I recognized you. (Y/n) Rifftens Amsel. I thought I was walking in a dream. A young face in a newer, older body. How strange! I realized then what was happening around me, and it was all moving too fast stop.”

 

“You knew me,” You said, registering the information. “You knew Jonathan Amsel?”

 

The man’s expression of sorrowful nostalgia turned to something more sinister; his features straightened, stiffened, his grip tightened against his mug holder. “I knew him — when I thought he was a good man doing good, honest work, I knew him! I don’t know who I thought he knew. Bah! I was the first to greet him when he and your mother moved in across from me. Me. Can you believe that?”

 

He looked to you for reaffirmation, but then came to his senses.

 

“Of course you don’t,” he continued. “You were just a girl then. What did he do to you?”

 

“He took my memory,” You said. “Or … parts of it. I don’t know.”

 

The man rose his mug to you. "We can only hope that our evil doesn't extent to our children. But ... unfortunately," he lowered his mug again, the spirit fading from his voice, "it looks as though whatever Jonathan was up to touched your life as well ..."

 

"So you don't know what he did?" You said. You were about to step closer but, thinking of Bruce, thought better of it and remained where you were. "Sir ... did you know about Hydra?"

 

"Yes!” The man said loudly. You startled. “Forgive me, yes … Hydra. _Heil_ _Hydra_. Oh, it was all such nonsense. Evil, mean nonsense. All these groups, hiding behind their little names, conspiring, corrupting. Should be ashamed … I can imagine that is why they fought so often …”

 

“Who?” You pressed, remembering the choppy vision you had had — _I’ve changed my mind!_ — “Who fought?”

 

“Your mother and father — Jon and Amanda. Oh, goodness, in the ungodly hours of the night. Naturally, it was all hush-hush when it was sun out — when you were awake and around, I’m sure they didn’t want to frighten you — but for the rest of us, bah! Jon and I were acquaintances. He liked pool, and so did I, and we bonded over a game every now and again. Then he started hanging out with those type … wasn’t the same. We stopped speaking — well, I stopped speaking to him, though he tried to reach out to me.”

 

The man looked up to you, sorrow painting his eyes. “Your mother left something for you. Would you like to see it?”

 

Your eyes widened. You straightened, your heart rate pacing faster. What?

 

“Yes,” You said without thinking. “She — she left — with you?”

 

“No,” said the man. “It was meant for you. It was left, in your room. I only found it by accident, when I repainted.”

 

“Why did you repaint?” You asked, finding this to be an incredibly creepy detail.”

 

“I paint,” said the man, entering into a sort of daze. “I’ve painted many rooms, many apartments. I saw yours when you were all gone, and I … I cried,” the man’s voice cracked. “I cried, as I have only cried once before, I … I’m sorry, but it was so tragic. There was … there was nothing. You were gone, and I wanted it to look nice for you if you returned.”

 

The man rose from his seat, the chair legs creaking against the wooden floor. “It was when I found the note that I decided to redo some things.”

 

There was a mixture of great pain and great hilarity at work, and your chest ached as you took a breath, but you wanted to laugh a little, as well, not entirely because it was funny. Who paints someone else's room? But then you noticed the cloudiness of the man’s gaze, and realized that it had been quite some time — if at all — since he had been … all there, really.

 

“I can show you,” he said. “But it would mean coming close to your precious Bruce. Do you want that?”

 

“No,” You said, once again, without thinking. “Tell me … tell me where it is, and I’ll find it myself.”

 

“Second shelf of your beige drawer,” the man answered, her lack of trust not seeming to bother him.

 

You began to turn, when —

 

“Miss (Y/n)?”

 

You faced him again, eyebrows raised.

 

“I …” he began, swallowing. “I hope that … whatever she left for you in that message is good. I never read it myself — I swear to you, I haven’t, though I have wanted … I hope that it is good, and kind, and something a mother would leave. I hope that it gives you hope.”

 

It was such a wholesome thing; a stranger wishing well on another stranger. The ache in your chest increased, though you didn’t give in to tears. Not yet. Not until you saw the message. Not until you knew there was something good to cry over.

 

You nodded, then a throaty “thanks” and made your way down the hall, closing the door behind you, locking it once more.

 

Bruce was still pleasantly asleep, and you were glad of it. You wanted him to sleep away the pain until it was durable. Without serious fear of waking him, you made your way to the beige drawer in question.

 

Pretty little thing, with cute, wooden orbs to pull on and open the drawers, one by one. Your eyes fell on the second, your hand moving to the knob, hesitantly at first, then tugging it to you, revealing its contents.

 

There, in the center of the drawer, was a little piece of paper. Her fingers trembled picking it up, and for a second you held it in your lap, unbelieving.

 

A second. Another. Another.

 

You unfolded it.

 

…

 

_Let him find you._

 

You sat there, as moments ticked away. Not disappointed, not hopeful, either. What did it mean? Why was it so short? And … and how could she have known?

 

Did she know this was going to happen? Why hadn’t she stopped it? Taken her away somewhere? Taken her away, and had begun a new life with her? A normal one? Not disappointment, not hope, rage. The message had **_enraged_ ** you. You balled your fist, crumbling the paper in your palm. You felt so … so embarrassed.

 

You wanted to scream, but you knew there would be no sleeping for Bruce then, for you weren’t entirely sure you wouldn’t bring the entire building down, crumbling ashes and smoke.

 

It made no sense, it made no sense whatsoever. Why? Why write a message like this? Why hadn’t she put it on the _fucking_ refrigerator if it was going to be this **_fucking_ ** short? Why had she written it all those years ago —

 

…

 

Then, suddenly, it occurred to you.

 

Maybe … she hadn’t written it then.

 

Maybe … she had written it recently?

 

Your mind fought to make sense of this new theory — it didn’t … _not_ make sense. You had no clue where your mother was, either. Alive or dead? Sane or insane? What had Aona done to her, anyway? Who could say she hadn’t left it here for her, months ago? Weeks? Days? A new rush of excitement infiltrated your system. You turned to Bruce, wishing, for once, that he was awake to share this new revelation with. You fought the urge to wake him — of course not, he had to sleep, you got him shot — but who?

 

The man, he … he had said that he had found the note one day, just there. Not a date, not a time given. Just one day. What day?

 

And the paint — the paint from the walls, it …

 

You rose from the floor, placing a hand on the cool walls. Your heart skipped a beat.

 

The paint was still dry.

 

You rushed to the door, note in hand. You unlocked the door and closed it behind you, flying into the hallway.

 

“Sir? Sir!” You called. You jerked when you found him at the table, reading — was that erotica? Oh, you couldn’t care about that right now. “I have the note!”

 

“What?” he said, then smiled. He had a nice smile, you noticed. “What does it say?”

 

“In a minute,” You said hastily. “When did you find it?”

 

His grin faltered as he considered the question. “Oh, well, I … I don’t know! It might have been …”

 

You sighed impatiently as the man counted his fingers. “Better question: when did you paint my room?”

 

“Re-repainted?”

 

“ _Re_ -repainted.”

 

“Oh, that couldn’t have been more than a week or so ago!”

 

You almost lost your breath.

 

A week ago …

 

She knew I was coming.

 

“Oh god,” You panted, fanning yourself. “This … this is huge. Sir, thank you. Really. If there is … I know Tony Stark, you know?”

 

“Really?” he said, and then, with an adorable accented voice, “Iron Man?”

 

“Yes! Iron Man! I’m his best friend!”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes! Anything you want, just ask!”

 

You gave him a radiant smile before heading back into the room, hearing, from behind you:

 

“Oh, I’d would enjoy some more paint … I like paint.”

 

V

 

Eventually, you willed yourself to calm down, and realized along the way that you were, indeed, quite tired. It was eight now, and you were ready to call it a night. You had slipped into bed with Bruce, your head a nice way away from his injured shoulder. You watched as his breathing heaved, raising and lowering his chest. He wore no shirt, and so you rose the covers over him. You wondered what his dreams were; perhaps he was having none, simply sleeping, uninterrupted. You didn’t know — you wanted to.

 

You hope he was having some peace.

 

You had had time to think. Let him find you. All this time, from the very moment Bruce had found you, your desire had been to find your parents. Dig up the old remnants of your life and fit them into yourself again, as though you were some puzzle that needed the final pieces, as though you weren’t real without them.

 

_Let him find you. Let him **come** to you._

 

It had been like a breath. The “oh!” moment when a solution to a math problem becomes clear — when the solution to any problem comes clear, and the clouds of one’s mind evaporate, revealing sky that had always been there, just waiting.

 

It had opened an entirely new path of thought — did you even want to know? Need to? No one would look at you and think that you had been living the way you were for the past five years. Not at all. You turned in bed, slowly, as to not rouse Bruce, and saw yourself in the mirror hanging against the door.

 

You saw what the world saw; just a girl. Young woman. In college, maybe? Talkative and sweet and normal. So unbelievably normal.

 

Perhaps it was time to claim some of that normal for yourself?

 

You thought of Natasha. How many identities had she taken on? How many lives? How many god the opportunity. You didn’t even have to have your father’s last name — you could choose your own — and you didn’t have live here, or there, or anywhere. You could do whatever you wanted. You had no masters.

 

You’d still need to find your mother — whatever Aona had did to her, you had to find her. Thor was wrong; she was your focus now. And you weren’t going back.

 

You could live. A foot, having been crushing your chest, stepped off of you finally.

 

Wasn’t it always this simple?

 

You could live.

 

You could live with Bruce, if he said yes.

 

You rested against the pillow, as close to him as possible.

 

You would ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you notice that attempt I made at German? Since, now that I'm learning the language, I have to try and fail to implement it somewhere in the story since Reader is German! So YAY! 
> 
> I ... I cannot even begin o tell you how grateful I am for how this chapter turned out. So many plotholes that just kinda fixed themselves with a little bit of guesswork. My motivation to continue with this story and embrace some of the fun is due to the lovely ss-shitstorm who stroked my ego bit by bit to help me through, and the rest is history.
> 
> Let him find you. I love that. It’s such a thing a mom would say, as my mom said it once. Why should Reader have to go through tooth and nail just to find her parents? Her father, specifically, who betrayed her? 
> 
> A lot of this epiphany I had had a lot to do with this one night, a year or so ago, where I was desperately trying to find my own father on facebook (I know. I know.) and my mom gave me some information on him dishearteningly before I confronted her on her attitude and she basically said, "Well, why do YOU have to look for HIM? He walked out on YOU, why should YOU do the grunt work?" 
> 
> ... I love my mom. That is all.
> 
> I never considered that until she said it, and I think I might have weaseled a bit of my subconscious into this chapter. Not to say that my father, like, wiped a significant amount of my memory away? Because ... dude, that's fucked up. But the point still stands. Reader's father abandoned her, why should she even care at this point?
> 
> So, that explains that.
> 
> I'm excited to see where else this story's gonna take me! I hope you enjoyed!


	6. Nothing To Offer But Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWO chapters! What kind of crazy, adrenaline-run utopia is this? 
> 
> Well, I'm on a rush. I'm kinda like a drug addict that way, but, like, with marvel.
> 
> AND HAHA I ALMOST DID SOMETHING REALLY STUPID NI SCRIVENER AND NEARLY DELETED EVERYTHING HA. HA. HA-HA. HA....HA.
> 
> I hope this doubly makes up for my stressful absence. I tried to make it juicy for ya~

It is a nightmare, as they always were.

 

When were they not?

 

Bruce screams, the pressure of it nearly puncturing his lungs, but no sound is heard. The world around him is on mute as he sees, from faraway, the Other Guy, squeezing the life out of your body with his monstrous hands.

 

You are a doll in his arms, and you slip away into the sand, breathless just as well. Bruce screams, falling to his knees. He wants to walk but he is chained to the ground, he wants to do _something_ — how much of it is his fault? How much of the Other Guy is him and how of him is the Other Guy? He doesn’t know.

 

 _All of it,_ he decides. _He’s to blame for it all._

 

The scene changes around him. He’s sitting at home, and your scent clings to his clothes. Your in front of him, behind him, beside him. He can’t meet your eye because he knows what he’ll see.

 

_How could you let this happen?_

 

The words aren’t spoken but they’re everywhere. He feels them. They’re the color of the dream, the atmosphere. Its configured by guilt, bedecked with shame …

 

It sits in his stomach like something rotten he had eaten, eating him from the inside, reducing him to a shell.

 

He sees himself falling over, the power of the gunshot enough to deafen him.

 

Again, and again and **_again and again._ **

 

He sees himself pushing you away, you hitting the railing — almost _falling_ over the railing — as he loses himself in the pain of his shoulder, in the rise of the Hulk.

 

The wind is in his hair, drying his tears. His hands are freezing from the cold of your tombstone. No one is here — no one has _helped_ her, including you — and he can do nothing.

 

He’s killed you. He was going to kill you, and he didn’t stop himself.

 

No. No, no, no, and no no no forever _no please no n **o GOD NO —**_

 

V

 

“Bruce! _Bruce!_ ”

 

It was a second before Bruce realized he had been thrashing, the words of the dream becoming words of reality and the pain of his shoulder seeping into life. You whispered his name, less panicked now that you saw him awake and more like the soft repetition of a word in a lullaby.

 

“Bruce … Bruce …” You soothed him, hand on his chest. He could hardly hear you over the sound of his own breathing, could hardly see you in the dark, but it was you. Even through the dark, he could trace the curve of your lip, the intensity of your stare, and he barely had the awareness to be flustered by your closeness.

 

His breathing stabilized; he closed his eyes. He should be assuring you that it was just a dream, that he was fine, even make a quip, maybe, like Tony would, like anyone would. Anything to stay on script, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He crashed against the pillow, and you followed him down.

 

He wiped his face with the back of his hand, his head tilting to the side of the wall. “Sorry,” was all he could make out. He could still see the Other Guy’s hands on you — his hands, oh, dear _god_ — and could not look at you. Not now.

 

Moments of quiet. You went nowhere, and Bruce was both thankful and resentful of it. Your hands grazed the planes of his chest hair, watchful and silent.

 

Finally, after moments of this, you spoke.

 

“Bruce?” You inquired in the dark.

 

His eyes had been reduced to sorrowful slits. “Yes?” he croaked.

 

“… Who was hurting me?”

 

It took him by surprise, so much so that he turned to look at you. You waited.

 

This was it, Bruce thought.

 

He parted his lips, and the answer came without much thought:

 

“Me,” he said. “I was —”

 

“No,” You shook your head. “No, that’s not true.”

 

“What?”

 

“You said …” You trailed as you adjusted yourself, propping your elbow. “You — You said _he’s gonna hurt you,_ not _I’m gonna hurt you._ Who’s he?”

 

Bruce’s eyes flickered over your face, the trail of unconsciousness to consciousness coming back to him. Had he said that? He. Differentiation. Not him.

 

Even so, he still felt guilty. He wanted to wince at his shoulder, currently fluctuating between sudden flares of pain to uncomfortable dull aches, but he couldn’t flinch at what he felt he deserved.

 

But he didn’t want to lie to you, not now, not now that you knew there was something about him …

 

“Years ago,” he said groggily. He attempted to clear his throat before he began, turning his attention to the ceiling. “Years ago, I … I … There was an accident, and I … I changed. I changed on a cellular level. I don’t remember all of the details. The radication… And now, when my heart rate reaches a certain speed, I … I change into something different.”

 

“Is that … when you were shot?”

 

“Yeah,” Bruce said, turning back to you at last. “It almost happened, but … then something happened: You were able to calm me down, bring me back … I didn’t think it was entirely possible, and I still don’t think it would have worked if … if it was just second or two more, I …”

 

Bruce grunted softly as he rose, sitting up.

 

“Now you know,” he went on. “I can’t control it, (Y/n). If I have a heads up, I can try and calm myself down, but if I’m caught by surprise, like yesterday, I … I could hurt you. I could _kill_ you, and I wouldn’t even know it. I have no power when I’m like that and — and I’m sorry, whatever _this_ is, it won’t work. I just —”

 

He caught himself when you placed a hand to his cheek, your gaze no less thoughtful from his confession.

 

“So,” You said. “So … there’s a _this?_ ”

 

Bruce met your eyes.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted. “It’s been … so long since I’ve been able to even consider … This might not even be what I think it is, it’s been so long, I don’t know if I’d know, but … I haven’t felt like this for anyone in so long. God,” Bruce let his hand fall against the mattress. “This is why I never dated in high school, (Y/n), the first time I tried to kiss a girl she thought I was trying to fish out a noodle out of her mouth with my tongue, I — I don’t have anything to offer you and —”

 

“Woah, woah,” You said, stopping him again. You were grinning. “I don’t have anything to offer _you_ ; when people ask if I’ve been living under a rock, I don’t know what I’m gonna say …”

 

You laughed, and Bruce followed, something loosening its hold against his heart.

 

“So, I guess …” You said. “We have nothing to offer but — but us. Who we are …”

 

Bruce laughed in disbelief. “You’re wrong; you’re young and pretty and …”

 

You hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder, below the bandages protecting his injury. He flinched a tad, awaiting pain, and when none came he relaxed against your touch.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” You said. “There’s no one else I want to do this whole life thing with other than you.”

 

Your breath fell on Bruce's lips, and it registered to him for the second time just how close you were to him. He shuddered, the hairs rising against his arms, but he made no attempt to move away from you.

 

And neither did you him.

 

He would have been content to stay there, in the soft, warm silence, just looking at you. But as you moved, slowly -- entire worlds were born and died in the amount of time you took, he had slowed everything down in his mind -- and brushed your lips against his, he realized just how much of a lie that had been.

 

Bruce took a breath as your lips melted over his. His hand raised to your neck, smoothing it, tugging you closer. The strands of your hair fell against his chest, tickling his pectorals, running over his bandages. The sweet smack your lips gave against his as you pulled back was near deafening to his ears, and before you could pull away entirely to get a admission of consent out of him, he pulled you back onto him, lips meeting again.

 

You were on him, sinking down to his level, your attention yo-yoing between the kiss and the threat of exacerbating the injury hidden by his bandages. Eventually, you fell to Bruce's left, where this wouldn't be a problem, and Bruce hovered over you in the dark.

 

He could feel your legs entangle against his between the cool of the sheets. Your knee brushed against a piece of skin, exposed from a rip in his jeans, most likely originating from his near transformation -- he frowned in the kiss, almost allowing the memory to taint of it, but quickly recovered as your hands came to his cheek.

 

Bruce moved away from you by a split inch, and you gasped for air you had been denying your lungs.

 

"Bruce ..." You breathed out.

 

Bruce suppressed a self-identified feminine squeal at the feel of your breasts brushing against his chest, underlined by the thin fabric of your shirt. "Yeah?"

 

"I'm ... not supposed to have boys in my room."

 

He laughed, realizing then just how out of breath he himself was. How much time had passed? He didn't want to know, actually. "That's what you get for dating a bad boy."

 

It was your turn to giggle into the pillow. "Bruce," You said a second or so later, "who are we? What the hell are we doing?"

 

"I have no idea," Bruce said, grinning. He smoothed a thumb against your cheek. "It's a nice uncertainty, though, not like, you know, gun-to-your-head uncertainty."

 

"Or gun-to-your-shoulder?"

 

"Didn't get a choice in that, remember?"

 

Your snorted into his arm. For the life of him, he could not remember feeling this calm, this free.

 

He leaned down to kiss you again, happy to see you reciprocate immediately. Your lips parted, giving him free access to your tongue, which he kissed gently before attempting to suck on. You seemed a bit taken aback by his experience (he did know some things by now) but reacted quickly to this; you kissed him on the mouth, then above his upper lip, below his lower, against the sides of his mouth.

 

Bruce felt his heart quicken, but could hardly care --

 

Your hands came to the sides of his waist, the slight bite of your nails against the beginning of the planes of his back --

 

Oh. _Oh_ , he wasn't expecting that. His heart rate faster now, his blood rushing --

 

You ran your tongue against his lower lip before enveloping him in another unbelievable kiss. Bruce tried to maneuver but ended up losing his grip, tumbling against you, his groin brushing against your crotch --

 

Oh, _god_ ...

 

"(Y/n)," Bruce said, pulling forth your name from the depths of his mind, his self-control dwindling, "(Y/n), we can't, remember what I ..."

 

But how could he tell you to just stop? It didn't make sense, and it wasn't fair -- god, could anything be fair to him? For _once?_ \--

 

Apparently, you saw the injustice in it all as well, because you, holding the sides of Bruce's face, your lips came to play against the shell of his ear.

 

It was then that Bruce closed his eyes, attempting a meditative state that was doomed to fail. He was not a man of faith, no matter how he tried, but at that moment he was prepared to pray, to bargain. _Please, I won’t touch her — I’ll never touch her again — just don't let **her** stop touching **me** \--_

 

No one was listening. Surprise, surprise.

 

Bruce was losing himself, he could feel it; the edges of his consciousness softening. Reality was a rope that his hands were loosening against.

 

And you weren't helping.

 

Your hands ran against his back, his body now entirely crushed against your own, the friction all too much. He kept trying to let out protests that wouldn't come, and the room remained ever silent besides your soft pants, your sweet moans that left him nearly drunk. He had no idea where you were getting this energy from; maybe you had wanted this for even longer than he had; maybe you would be the dominant one -- oh, god, no, don't think about _that_ anything but _**that** _ \--

 

"(Y/n) ..." he made out, hoping it did not confuse with a moan of his own.

 

"(Y/n) ..."

 

"(Y/n)!"

 

"(Y/n)! Stop!"

 

Bruce ripped himself away from you, falling against the other side of the bed. He gasped, his eyes blinking furiously; he could see his heartbeat in his eyes, a dark premonition of what would have come -- come _out_ of him -- had he not ...

 

"Bruce?" You said now. "Bruce, oh, god, did you want me to stop sooner? I'm so sorry, I ..."

 

"No," He caught you, a trembling hand falling against your shoulder. Once again, when he wanted to assure you, he had to save that energy for himself and himself only. "I just ... I'm sorry, (Y/n). We can't. We can't ... not ever."

 

You searched him with your eyes until you read his meaning, comprehended it like foreign words on a page, slow to register but a second later understanding. Truly.

 

"Bruce ..." You started. "How long has it been since ... since you ...?"

 

"Not since The Other Guy, (Y/n)," he told you. "Not since then ..."

 

This was a new shame. As the implications of what he had told you ran over in your mind, he turned away. There were more reasons he was unsatisfactory. More reasons why it wouldn't work. Why it never worked.

 

He couldn't give you anything.

 

He -- he was _impotent_.

 

And who could he blame? It was a basic human need after all, and you were not without your lust — that had been _pleasantly_ orchestrated already — and what he was asking of you was enormous.

 

Betty came to his mind, for the first time in what felt like decades, then Natasha.

 

He was a freak of nature now. He had nothing to give you, and you had tried to repute him with your own little cute hangups, but they were nothing in comparison.

 

He wanted you to say it now. He wanted to scream, "Just say it!" and hear you say it: that he was a disaster, that this was one flaw to many, and that you were sorry but _haha, no._

 

He looked at you, his gaze no longer sweet and lingering but hard. Expectant.

 

_Say it._

 

You looked back at him, your lips in a firm line.

 

"I don't care."

 

Bruce gawked, before laughing derisively. "You -- You don't care," he repeated matter-of-factually. "Is that what you're saying?"

 

"Yes, that's what I'm saying --"

 

"Oh, god," Bruce said, throwing up his hands, "c'mon, (Y/n)! You have your whole life in front of you! Give it a week -- no, a month! No! A whole _year_ , maybe, and you're going to care, and you're telling me I'm gonna have to sit there and wait for the day where you walk out on me? No. No. Don't give me any false hope, okay? Just say it now --"

 

"Bruce! --"

 

" ** _Say it!_** "

 

You did a double-take. He had never yelled at you before. Never even raised his voice.

 

"Say it," he repeated miserably. "Say that I can't give you anything, that you can't love me!"

 

Your eyes glistened with tears threatening to fall. You took a shuddered breath.

 

"I can't."

 

Bruce's breath was stolen.

 

"I can't," You went on, "because I ... I'm sorry, but I kinda do already, and I know it's _way_ too early for me to start using that word, but when I say I kinda do I mean I mean I'm a _stair_ step away from actually feeling that way. So stop trying to make me just go away because that's not going to work. It's just _not,_ Bruce."

 

You looked away finally. If your tears had fallen, he couldn’t see them.

 

He watched you, amazed, and then something grew in him, sprouting from the depths of his anguish.

 

Could he … did you really?

 

Hope was one of the final evils that sprung from Pandora’s box, he reminded himself. It was sweet and sickly, soft within you and stubborn to the rest of the world. Maybe … just maybe …

 

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he said weakly.

 

“It’s okay,” You said with the same amount of strength.

 

Moments passed, just like that. You raised your hand to push back wild strands that had fallen around your face in the wild make-out session. Finally, you turned your head to him, looking miserable.

 

“Can we at least try?” You asked. “Please, Bruce. Please let us try.”

 

He couldn’t say no, and he didn’t feel like it was wise to say yes. Instead, he did neither; he took your hand, pulling you to him.

 

“I have things I need to tell you,” You said. “I found some stuff out while you were asleep. And I wouldn’t want to tell anyone else. Does that count for something?”

 

Yes, he thought. Yes, it did. It counted for everything.

 

“Tell me anything,” he said.

 

And you did, in the dark, while he held you there, playing with the ends of your hair. He closed his eyes, listening …

 

When you were finished —

 

“Bruce,” You spoke.

 

“Yes?”

 

You rose your head, and pressed your lips against his.

 

He held your back, reciprocating gently. You gave a soft sigh as his teeth brushed against your lower lip.

 

And it wasn’t a chaotic mess of heartbeats — though, he wanted that, too, even if he was cursed not to have it — but a soft symphony of flutters. Continuous and sweet. It put him at ease with himself, having done it once already, and he would have paid for anything to know if it was the same for you.

 

You kissed him for seconds more, before pulling away, your lips lingering against his for a moment, nearly sticking to his from the sweet yet firm play.

 

“I never want to live in a world where I can’t do that,” You said. “Does that count for something, too?”

 

He blinked, slowly, still dazed. He held you to him, and let him have this dream, for however long it was meant to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erm, I’d just like to add that some of the things Bruce thinks in this chapter are his thoughts, not a reflection of how things actually are in real life, so before I get any angry messages I just wanna let you know that people can think some very problematic things and writers just implement and orchestrate those things in their work. I’m not going to be blatant about what I’m referring to (because then I get to be as ambiguous as I want and if no one catches on to what I'm saying then I have nothing to apologize for YAY GHOST WHAT GHOST?) so I’m going to leave that note there.
> 
> On another note, what a nice turn of events from an author's perspective. I had to wikia it, but I was right! MCU changed the whole hulk transformation to when he's angry to when his heart rate increases to high levels or when he loses control of his emotions (whatever they may be) Which makes things juicier for me because YAY they're a couple but HAHA THEY CAN'T MAKE LOVE HAHA SURPRISE WE'RE SAD.
> 
> But the rating is still what it is, so ... I'm sure something'll change. Maybe. Most likely. I'm a perverted piece of shit and I can't have this for too long.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, to begin, I have NO idea where this is going and it came to me the night after I came back from seeing Age of Ultron myself. I loved it, though many didn't, and I won't tolerate any badmouthing about the movie in particular. Sorry. Just won't. 
> 
> Please leave comments and such and such telling me what you think of this! And if I should continue! Because I truly have no clue what this is or what it will turn into!
> 
> Pls, I'm just so lost right now but I'm so happy with it thus far!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed~


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